


Quiet, Quiet: or, Beauregard's epic, cunning plan to fuck Yasha Nydoorin into a coma so she stops running away

by Transformatron



Series: Beauyasha Fic [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: BDSM, Beau is a bit of a monsterfucker and she's not sorry about it, Biting, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Coitus Interruptus, Comedy, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Edgeplay, F/F, Face-Sitting, Fingerfucking, Fisting, Fuckbuddies To Lovers, Marathon Sex, Mild Horror, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Semi-Public Sex, Somnophilia, Squirting, Strap-Ons, Subspace, Suicidal Thoughts, Switching, Vaginal Fingering, Yasha is a bit of a monster and she's very sorry, no Beta we die like Mollymauk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:00:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 81,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27667148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transformatron/pseuds/Transformatron
Summary: A how-to guide for keeping your barbarian bedmate in one place.Yasha's always there when Beau wants her. Never when she needs her. Not that Beau needsanyone, duh - but it'd be nice if Yasha stuck around till morning.And if these stupid butterflies could stop infesting her chest whenever they touch... yeah. That'd be real swell, too.
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha
Series: Beauyasha Fic [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061897
Comments: 362
Kudos: 692





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about two very damaged people who make a connection and struggle to maintain it. It has its ups and its downs, following canon. Expect lots of emotions and sex. Sometimes both at once.
> 
> We start in the early episodes, when Yasha was vanishing every other week. Just imagine she and Beau have been boning on the sly from the beginning!

Big kill, today. A pack of magic-mutated wolves have been terrorising farmland, gobbling livestock and the occasional slow-moving grandma. They’re tricky prey. Fourteen in total, working together with a fluid ease that the Nein, at this early point in their relationship, lack. Hunting formations honed over centuries, passed down from parent to cub.

Still, the Nein walk away without a single scratch.

Oh, there’s plenty of gore. Guts in hair, fur caught between teeth, dry blood to sponge off leathers and flesh. But, for once, none of the gratuitous sprays of bodily fluids or goopy bits of organ originate from a party member. Because who should rock up, just as the lead wolf was about to create a deconstructed artwork out of Molly’s neck, but a six-foot barbarian babe with muscles like fucking melons?

A six-foot barbarian babe with muscles like fucking melons and a stupid, beautifully awkward smile that Beau wants to bite off as much as she wants to kiss?

_“Uh,” said Yasha, casually halving the wolf around her zweihander in a shrrrrk-scrk of cleaving bone. “Hi?”_

_Because that’s what you say, after abandoning your team for a week. Again._

_Beau crossed her arms and scowled (and maybe flexed in Yasha’s direction – just a bit, shut up). Then spun a shuriken through the eye of another wolf before it could swallow Nott whole, and scowled some more._

_How stupid. How needy. How pathetic to presume that because of what happened between them, Yasha would stay._

_It’d be easier if Beau could hate her for leaving._ _So much easier._

There’s much slapping of backs and joshing of jibes as they all swagger townwards. Fjord slings the pack leader’s head over his shoulder (after letting Molly get in a few vindictive kicks) to present to the Shepherds’ Union. And of course, everyone interrogates Yasha. She clumsily deflects all questions about where she’s been, what she’s been doing, and whether (as Nott enquires with huge, accusatory eyes) she’s found a _new_ team to go on adventures with. It's way more endearing than it should be, how she can swing that giant sword like a fucking jump rope and still lack basic conversational skills.

Beau doesn’t join the banter. Not even when Fjord glares. Sure, she doesn’t want to be an arsehole. But there’s a squirmy whisper in her ear, and it tells her to run to Yasha like Jester does, fling her arms around her waist, bury her face in her belly and beg her not to leave again.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid._ Yasha’s a strong, independent barbarian/divine-whatever-the-fuck-else. She doesn’t need some whiny warrior monk all up in her business, telling her when to come and when to go. Whatever she and Beau have, it’s not – never will be – that.

They’re just… _sex pals,_ or something.

Or not. That sounds way too skeezy.

Amorous acquaintances? No, too distant.

Fuckbuddies? _Ugh._

Beau’s still mulling it over as they reach the inn. Yasha books her own room – must be tired of bedding down in grimy alleyways. That, or she has _plans._ But every time Beau meets her eyes, Yasha’s bicoloured gaze latches to the nearest inanimate object, so Beau doesn’t let herself hope.

The inn's attached bathhouse billows with perfumed steam. The Nein strip grotty armour and tattered cloaks, shucking jerkins and linens from sweat-crusted skin. They leave their clothes in a heap, on the innkeeper’s assurance they’ll be laundered fresh by the time they emerge. The bath is a rectangular basin, cut deep into the ground. Every surface runs slippery with condensation. Beau skids twice as she walks over. This is, admittedly, because she keeps trying not to give a shit about Yasha’s looming presence, failing miserably, and twisting over her shoulder to see if she’s looking.

Both times, she is. Both times, Beau comes perilously close to rearranging her face with the marble floor.

 _So_ lame.

Still, Beau makes it to the tub without breaking any bone she’d miss. All seven members of the Nein sink in – although Nott soon changes her mind. She perches on the wall next to Caleb, swooshing her feet through the pearlescent water and shooting nervy glances at Beau. It’s her lucky day. Beau’s not in the mood for more swimming lessons. Least of all ones that wouldn’t be appreciated.

They soak for several minutes, wordless, wreathed by steam. Under the surface, Beau’s leg sets up a rampant jig. She’s never been one for silence. The most she achieved from all those monkly meditation sessions at The Cobalt Soul was a sore jaw. She can’t stop grinding her teeth when it’s quiet, just to hear her molars scrape.

Why detach herself from everything she is to focus on the world around her? Beauregard Lionett just _is._ Unapologetically, without restraint.

It’s a curious affliction, her need to fill the gap, plug the hole, puncture any lull in conversation with her own voice. Beau doesn’t know where it comes from. Doesn’t much care, either. But the last time the spaces between words _didn't_ press down on her with the intent to smother was three weeks ago, when she curled into Yasha at night. Turns out she can sleep like that, a heavy arm weighing her into the furs, cold nose tucked into Yasha’s neck. Breathing her in: the sharp scent of ozone, like the air before lightning strikes. And her jaw won’t hurt one bit in the morning.

Yasha rinses and rises, water level dipping dramatically in her wake. Perhaps Beau should put some of this into words. She should tell her how Beau's memorised each scarred band of muscle that lashes her broad shoulders to her waist, glistening ice-pale between her snarls of waterlogged hair. How Beau wants to know the woman behind the sword. Not just to rely on her for battle and exceptional orgasms, but as a teammate, a compatriot, a _friend_ …

 _Orrrrrrr_ maybe Beau should just fuck her good enough that she can’t sneak out because her legs are too wobbly. Yeah, that seems like the easier option.

An elbow digs between her ribs. “You’re _staring,_ ” coos Jester, loud enough for everyone to hear. Yasha included. “Practically _ogling._ Careful – if the sexual tension in this room rises any higher, it might turn into an orgy!” 

She sounds way too hopeful. Caleb slips beneath the water and starts choking. Fjord wades over and pounds between his shoulders, while Molly – lost to the steam on the far side of the bath – heaves an entire opera of a sigh and quietly assures the other patrons of the bathhouse that he isn’t with them.

And Yasha – well.

Yasha turns, glancing at Beau over one bare, gleaming shoulder. Her hair clings to her skin, begging for someone to gather it up, brush it back. Her ears, already reddened by the bath, have discovered a new shade of fuchsia.

Jester's bare blue body squishes against Beau's side, hotter than the bathwater and sinfully soft. “I _see._ She’s ogling _back._ ”

Beau flicks her nearest horn. “Thanks, as always, for your completely unsolicited commentary.”

“You’re welcome! It’s what I do best!”

Beau rolls her eyes. When she swings her legs out of the tub, she’s sure to give Jester a face-full of a splash. “Hey," she calls, over Jester's squeals and promises of sudsy vengeance. "Hey, Yasha! Wait up. Quit showing off how long your legs are.”

Yasha grabs a towel off one of the heated stone racks at the rear of the bathhouse. She tosses another to Beau. “I – you were looking at my legs?”

Beau dedicates a thousand prayers to her ancestors for blessing her with a skin tone too dark to reveal every blush. The towel is so fluffy it’s like rubbing herself all over with a baby animal, and it wicks up the moisture faster than napkins. Good thing the Nein made mint off their wolf-killing gig. She could get used to life’s little luxuries, again. 

She performs an economic dry-off and tosses the towel over her shoulder, leaning on the cool, tiled wall. “Just, y’know. Checking for injuries after our fight. Us being such good buddies and all.”

Yasha tugs on her laundered clothes with ritualistic dedication, for someone who knows Beau intends to wrestle them off her in T-minus 5 minutes. First up: leather trousers so sturdy they look like they’d hold her shape without her inside them. Then arm guards, vambraces. A form-fitting grey top. She rolls that down to her waist before latching all the pin-eye buckles on her belts: _clink, clink, clink_. “I’m not hurt.”

“Good! That's good, yeah." Beau sidles closer. She hastily reclaims her super-cool, casual-sideways-leaning-pose when Yasha looks up, and maybe – just _maybe_ – flexes an eensy bit more. Sue her; Yasha ain’t the only one with biceps. "We should do a more thorough check-over, though. Of each other. No need to bother the cleric, right?”

The ensuing pause stretches long enough for Beau to wonder if her invitation actually landed. Yasha frowns, squeezing waterfalls from her sodden mass of hair. “You want to...? Again?"

Ouch. "You don't?" Had it not been good enough? Had _she_ not been _enough?_ No, Beau's sure she made it fun; she did that thing with her tongue and her thumb that's a guaranteed winner on a first night with anyone new...

"No! I mean - yes! I want to. But. I just meant. Do you _really_ want to? Despite…?” 

Ah. Despite her ditching them again with zero warning. Despite this apparently being a regular thing.

 _Yashaing,_ Molly called it, with a knowing roll of his eyes.

“Despite,” Beau agrees, ducking to work her leggings up her damp calves. Because it's true. Because it doesn't matter. Because this is just casual. Yasha's a good lay, and so's Beau. Why shouldn't they make the most of it, whenever they're together? 

And she's a great fighter, too. So why shouldn't Beau give her a little more incentive to stay?

“Oh.” Yasha peeps at her from the corners of her mismatched eyes. “Well, I, uh, might be injured after all.”

“Oh my _God,_ ” calls Nott, gravelled voice echoing off the mosaic ceiling. “Just _go_ already.”

“Or stay here!” That’s Jester. “But come back and wait for the steam to clear! So we can all watch! Possibly join in!”

Pass. Beau likes her new team - they're fun and friendly, on the whole, and they've got her back when they fight. But she’s never been the best at sharing.

Beau grabs Yasha’s hand. She jerks her chin to the stairs leading out of the bathhouse. At Yasha's nod, she leads the way, blue robes flapping from her waist and ulterior motives bubbling in her mind. It's official. Plan Fuck Yasha So Hard She Can't Skip Town Again is _on_.

* * *

They pick Yasha’s room in the end. Less chance of being interrupted by a thoroughly unrepentant blue tiefling. Suffice to say, they don’t make it to the bed. Yasha’s on Beau as soon as the door swings shut, one arm around her waist. She moves her so easily, spinning her like she’s lighter than air. Tilting up Beau’s chin, big fingers brushing her throat.

Beau bares it. A moan slips from her, as Yasha ducks to lick along its line.

Fuck. That’s embarrassing. Too loud in the hush of the room, too soon, too enthusiastic. Like she’s trying to prove something.

Yasha doesn’t mock her though (does she ever?) And she definitely doesn’t move away.

There’s no escaping her like this – not that Beau would want to, as she's backed up into the room. Each of Yasha's steps could crush a mountain. She’s indomitable, a force of nature no lesser than the storm-lashed sea. Being near her, feeling the hot rush of her breath over Beau's jumping pulse, makes Beau think all sorts of stupid shit about how she could be the cliff against which Yasha breaks.

Fucking _poetry._

Best just focus on action. Beau winds her arms around Yasha’s neck. She locks her grip and crunches _up_ (thank you, awesome abs) to wrap her legs around her waist. Yasha makes a noise – low, subvocal, nothing as extravagant as a moan. She holds her like this was what her deltoids were built for. Which – fuck yeah, squeezing them, Beau can believe it.

“Think we should take a sabbatical from adventuring and just, like, fuck each other all day?” she asks, real conversational.

“You’d get bored if you couldn’t kill things.”

“Bored? Have you _seen_ yourself? Anyway, the monsters of the world could use a respite.”

“Not sure the people they’re eating feel the same.”

Beau resettles herself on Yasha’s hips. She shrugs her robes from her shoulders, letting them puddle at Yasha’s feet. “The little people can save themselves for once. We have way more important business." Like scissoring each other stupid. Christening every inn on the continent. Screwing in every city…

“You don’t mean that.” Yasha tucks one arm under her thighs, effortlessly supporting her weight. “You’re too kind to let darkness walk these lands unchecked.”

Right. She believes the best of Beau, far more than Beau believes it of herself. Beau doesn’t want to process that right now – much less why the earnestness in Yasha’s gaze should make her stomach twist. She leans closer, hooking her ankles over the small of Yasha’s back, and grins. “One night then.”

Yasha’s tattooed lips quirk up. “I think the world can handle that.”

Then she kisses Beau. Fucking _finally._

And it’s – well. Kinda awful.

Not what Beau wants, not what Beau needs. Too soft. Too _careful_. Like Beau’s a fractured thing that might shatter at a misjudged touch. Like Yasha’s trying, in her usual awkward way, to say something more than just the mash of lips and the mutual rubbing of erogenous zones.

 _Sorry,_ perhaps.

She can save it. No point apologising, when you don’t mean to change.

Beau growls _,_ low in her chest. She cuts off Yasha’s next inhale with a squeeze of her legs and digs her teeth into the stripe on her bottom lip. Hard. “Bed, _n_ _ow_.”

Yasha licks over the dents: Beau’s incisors, in negative. She shrugs, jostling Beau against her. “Sure.”

She carries Beau to the four-poster one armed, using the other to topple the mound of fluffy pillows and relocate several to the floor. There’s something heady about her casual displays of strength. The knowledge Yasha could hike Beau up and eat her out like this, Beau’s calves locked on her shoulders, her head bumping the ceiling. That she could pin her down and have her that way, any way, and Beau could do nothing but shudder and _take it._

Her insides clench at the thought. Heat drips behind her navel, slow as candlewax. Being caught isn’t such a terrifying prospect. Not with Yasha.

“Keep kissing me,” she gasps, as Yasha deposits her on the furs and hovers above, a question in her eyes. “Want – your fingers, want – “

It’s all she has to say. Yasha crawls over her. She strokes the length of Beau’s thigh, down then up. Her long lashes lower as she nibbles Beau's collarbone (light, too light, until Beau digs her heels into her back).

Beau’s already making a whole host of stupid noises. She makes more stupid ones still, as Yasha lifts her hips to slide her leggings down.

 _Hgg_. When did she start getting turned on by women who can pick her up, rather than the other way around?

They roll onto their sides. Yasha's fingertips trail over Beau's stomach, tracing (to her delight) each of her abs. Heck yes, they deserve to be appreciated. Yasha paints spirals over them with the jagged edge of a nail, dipping lower, lower, lower again. When she finally touches where Beau wants her, there’s no subtlety. Just one warm, rough palm, cupping between her legs.

Beau’s eyes half-lid. The candles glow too bright. Needles riddle her senses, Yasha’s touch too much yet not enough. She wants _more_ , so she slips her thigh between hers, grinding there as Yasha rolls the heel of her hand against her, listening for that faint hitch in her breath.

It’s impossible to last. Yasha’s palm rocks slow at first, but faster, firmer, at Beau’s demands. She ducks to bite a mouthful of Beau’s crop top, then yanks it up to suck roughening lovebites over her breasts, pulling black bruises onto umber flesh. When Beau drags her up with a fistful of grey hair, her kiss tastes of spiders and storms. It feels like no time at all and forever before Beau’s back arches and her core clenches and pleasure crackles out from her spine, and Yasha slides one finger in deep enough to feel her ripple, pressing her thumb tight to her clit as Beau throws back her head and –

_Gods._

Beau _–_ well, Beau doesn’t even know what noise she makes. But it’s still scratching at the back of her throat when she slithers down from her peak. Shrill and broken, like scraping shards of glass.

Yasha’s right _there._ Watching her at close range, one finger still tucked within her, mouth tweaked in that shy, _perfect_ smile.

"You're," she starts. Flushes, but refuses to break eye contact. One iris is turquoise, the other violet. Both tunnel Beau through. “You, uh, look good like that.”

Beau grins. “Yeah,” she says, once she can talk without stuttering. She grasps Yasha’s wrist, guiding her damp finger up her abdomen, drawing a silvered trail between her breasts, all the way to her lips. She sucks her own slick from it, then kisses the core of Yasha’s palm, where the skin is knotty from years of bladecraft. Digging her tongue into a love-line, like she might find some softness there. No dice: the calluses go all the way down. “But you'd look better. On your back.”

Beau wants her to feel the same fuzzy warmth that's pulsing through her, and far more besides. Wants to kiss her and bite her and fuck her through the mattress and scratch her name into her so deeply she’ll never lose the scar. If Yasha’s going to leave again, Beau might as well give her something to remember her by.

Yasha eases herself prone. She’s haloed by her drying hair, ombre curls fanned across the pillows. Beau shivers as she rises above her, naked bar the spit-slick from Yasha’s open-mouthed kisses at her breasts. The air in the room is chill. She’ll have to stay busy, if she wants to stay warm.

“Give me a number,” she tells Yasha as she undresses her. Unclipping the last belt, letting it fall to either side of her torso. She encourages Yasha to raise her arms, helping her wiggle from that corset-tight top, then nuzzles between her breasts and down to kiss the bared planes of her stomach, loving the jump of muscle beneath her tongue. “Between one and ten.”

Yasha cranes down at her. She’s already tense-to-tremors, fists tangled in the sheets. Must’ve gotten all pent up and desperate, playing Beau on her fingers, shuddering into every press of her thigh. “We’re playing one of Nott’s magic games?”

“No. I’m not going to guess it. You have to tell me.”

“Uh.” A slight crack in Yasha’s voice, as Beau tugs her trousers south. Oh, _yeah._ She's definitely wet beneath them. Slick webs the leather, more glistening between her thighs. “Um. Five…?”

Beau kisses the bulge of her quadricep. She hooks beneath Yasha’s knee, easing her open so she can slot between. More kisses, trailing up to the crux where her thigh joins her body, the tender v leading in from her hips. Yasha squirms like she’s dying when Beau sucks there, hard enough to bruise. Or like she’s trying really, _really_ hard not to jackknife and knee Beau in the face.

“Mm. Yeah. That’ll do it. And Yash’?”

Yasha manages a choked little “Hm?”. When Beau sinks lower, breathing over her dark, soaked fuzz of hair, it becomes more choked still. “B-Beau –“

“Be loud,” Beau murmurs. Then leans forward and treats her to a slow, luxurious kiss.

Yasha’s head drops back, but she doesn't make a sound. 

Beau flicks her tongue against her, just once, and retreats. “ _Loud_."

Yasha tries. Which is to say, she makes a squeaky moan, looks very embarrassed and flops back on the pillows, arm tossed over her eyes. She sounds like a dying guinea pig.

“You sound like a dying guinea pig,” Beau tells her. Then grimaces, recalling Fjord’s lessons on basic civil decency: “Sorry. That was supposed to be an inside thought. I’m an arsehole.”

Yasha shakes her head. “I, uh, like, that you’re an arsehole.“ Her eyes beg far more eloquently than her mouth. “Beau…”

Shit. If she looked at Beau like that and asked her for the moon, Beau would climb up and cut it from the sky.

 _Stupid._ Just sex-pheromones. Whatever.

“Just let yourself feel it,” Beau mutters, ducking back down. “It’ll be good. I promise.”

Yasha sucks a sharp inhale. Then again, when Beau licks up the dripping seam of her. She might smell like storms, but she tastes of salt and just a little iron, like all that wolfblood has leached into her skin.

Beau takes her time, eyes shut. Exploring. Finding all those secret places that make her shiver. The very bottom of Yasha’s belly, where pale skin curves down into musky dark hair. The divot above each hipbone. The little pale stretch between the base of her cunt and her arse. Beau licks a trail of slick from there and has to smack the inside of Yasha’s leg before it closes on her head.

“Hot as the idea of being crushed between your thighs might get me, that’s only theoretical. I don’t actually want to put it into practice.”

“Right – fuck – Beau –“

“I mean, think of how we’d explain this to the others. Jester would never let you forget it.”

“I’m – yeah – sorry, sorry – “

Beau tells her she doesn’t need to be. Then proves it with a series of flat-tongued licks, soft and slow, dragging through silky folds.

Yasha is all tight-bitten lips, flared-nostril snorts. Every muscle clenches, like it takes all her formidable strength to stay still. She jerks at every incidental brush of Beau's nose against her clit –

Then suddenly, as Beau nudges her there again, nuzzling in, _just_ to see if she can make her moan –

Yasha goes limp. Air evacuates her lungs in a rush, those gorgeous shoulders slackening. Her toes curl into the sheets.

Beau draws back. She peers up Yasha’s body to the fever-bright glow of her face. “…Did you seriously cum already?”

Yasha blinks several times, like she’s waking from a dream. Beau knows the moment her words percolate, because her flush seeps down her chest like her throat’s been cut. “Uh…”

Fuck. Beau intended to get her pleasure out the way so she could focus fully on Yasha, but this – this is hot enough to swirl heat in her abdomen again. “ _Yasha._ Shit, you, uh, you -“

“Look good like that?” Yasha whispers.

Beau nods, clambering up her body to plant kiss after kiss on the peak of each breast. _Seriously_ good. And she wants to see more.

She reaches low, finding that warm, slick welcome, sinking two fingers to the hilt. Yasha’s still rippling around her, just a little. Beau can imagine the sort of orgasm she had – tingly and drawn-out, the type that bursts from your mind more than your body. Though Yasha’s body is gloriously receptive: taking her so easily. Warm and plush and wet for it, despite the groove between her brows.

“Uh. Beau?”

Beau rests her head on Yasha’s chest. The way she looks at her is all calculation: a smoky appraisal from under her lashes combo'd with her favourite ladykiller grin. “That’s one, baby.”

The groove deepens. “...One?”

“Out of five. Remember? You’d better count them out.” A cheeky wink, because why the fuck not. “I’m gonna be preoccupied.”

Yasha mutters the name of her god. Then “ _Beau,_ ” with equal reverence. She’d better get praying. Beau likes to think that, if the Stormlord’s watching, he’d cheer her on.

She smooches her nipple, swirling her tongue around the pale areola. A curl of her fingers and Yasha keens, pressing up, chasing Beau the moment she pulls away. The expression on her face when Beau slides back in, another finger besides (lip bitten, eyes half lost to a roll) is one to remember forever. Or at least, until the next time Yasha leaves.

For now though, she's here, and Beau intends to memorise every inch. How she whines and balls her fists in the hotel's cheap, scratchy sheets. How she arches, rhythmic as a dancer, every time Beau fucks her deep. Stroking her from the inside, where she’s soft and soaked and clutching Beau like she never wants to let go.

“Beau, Beau, _Beau –_ “

Whispered. Like an invocation, a prayer.

“Loud,” Beau murmurs, kissing under the crease of her breast. Brushing her thumb across her clit, side to side. The angle’s a bitch on her wrist, but this is so worth not being able to hold her staff tomorrow. “That’s it, Yasha. That’s it – for me – “

Yasha clamps down on her and shakes. But when her body flexes in an undulating wave and she tosses her head back, a perfect line from neck to breast to hip, taut as the nocked string on Nott’s crossbow, she chomps though the raw-bitten skin of her lip before she makes a sound.

Something still sneaks out. Strangled, small. Beau cherishes it. She doesn’t let her fingers stop, though her arm’s a burn of protest. Just keeps on slipping into her, out again, keeping Yasha riled as she slithers back down her body, any space between them slippery with sweat. Blowing over her twitching clit, she asks:

“Number?”

Yasha’s eyes shoot open. It’s quite the look she pins Beau with. Fucking _ferocious_. Like she might grab her and take a bite.

Then she falls back. Loose, gasping. Legs jerking to the flick of Beau’s tongue.

“T-two… Fuck!”

Beau hums her approval. Her fingers are buried deep, not thrusting so much as grinding. She keeps up a slow, pulsing rhythm in counterpoint to each circle she traces around Yasha’s clit, easing it up from its retreat. No time for hiding. Everything must be oversensitive now, pleasure cresting painful. Beau washes two more slow, spitty licks over that tender little bump with the softest part of her tongue, then backs up, working the strain from her fingers.

It takes a moment to fortify herself, remind herself of her purpose. There’s a niggling whisper in the back of her mind, insisting it’s pathetic to use multiple orgasms to bribe someone to hang out with you. But fuck - if this is what it takes to keep Yasha around, it’s a price Beau’s more than willing to pay. 

She positions the very tip of her tongue against Yasha, glancing up her body, into her eyes. And flutters it, butterfly-quick. Never ceasing that slow, precise curl of her fingers inside. Digging up into that spongey swell that makes Yasha _writhe_.

Yasha demonstrates beautifully, twisting her head side to side, panting, spit-shine at the corner of her lips - "Oh – Beau – please, please, –“

Beau’s all too happy to comply. She feels herself throb just from the thought of how this must feel: a torment on a spent body, pushing Yasha relentlessly towards her next edge. She tickles her on her tongue-tip, a constant vibration, no reprieve; until her jaw burns and her fingers ache and all she tastes, smells, _feels,_ is her.

When they find that edge, it comes as a shock to both of them. Namely because it’s marked by Yasha’s loud moan, the judder of her hips, and the sudden wetness that spurts all over Beau’s face.

Beau shuts her eyes just in time. Then opens them again, blinking rapidly. Droplets stud her lashes, more trickling down her cheeks. When she pokes her sore tongue out her mouth, she tastes salt.

“Huh" she says, over the rhythmic noises Yasha's making. Not more moans, not really. More like each panting breath snags her vocal cords on the way out, wringing whine after whine. " _Nice._ "

She pulls back to study her handiwork. Yasha’s _shuddering._ Aftershocks pulse through her, like she’s at the epicentre of an earthquake. Her face is scrunched around a grimace. She’s torn the sheets from all that clawing, and red radiates from her forehead to her sternum, bar the dark line bisecting her chin.

The soaked bedding under her sticks as she shifts. Beau sees it - the moment she realizes what just happened. Mostly because Yasha goes stock still, and all that lovely blush starts to drain. She stares at Beau's dripping face, huge-eyed, with something that looks way too much like mortification.

Nuh-uh. Not if Beau has anything to do with it.

“That’s just _insanely_ fucking hot,” she gushes – or, well, not _gushes._ Bad Beau. Very poor choice of words. She licks her mouth, her cheek, the back of her hand, eager as a dog. Grinning bright enough that Yasha can’t help but emulate. “I mean – fuck, _Yasha._ ”

“I – I got the bed wet –“

Her voice is _wrecked._ Despite her barely making a sound.

“Yes, you fucking well did! And I for one am _thrilled_ about it.” Beau pats Yasha’s flank until she gets the message and eases her trembly legs up, letting Beau bundle the drenched blanket from under her and lob it to the floor. “How’d you even do that? I’ve never managed…”

Yasha covers her burning face with her hands. She mumbles something that sounds a little like ‘I can teach you’ and a lot like the best thing that’s ever happened to one Beauregard Lionett of The Cobalt Soul since the day she decided to make her own merry way in the world.

Beau quashes the urge to demand an immediate lesson. Down, girl. Down. For now, they’re only on…

What was it, again?

She licks Yasha once more, but Yasha fucking _whimpers_ and pushes at the top of her head. Beau decides to have mercy. Mostly because if Yasha shoves her like that again, she might snap her neck.

“Number?” she asks.

Yasha makes a long, delirious noise. If you had a language spell enabled, it might’ve sounded something like _three._

“Good girl,” says Beau, without really thinking about it. She’s rewarded by another feral-eyed look and a whine.

…Interesting.

“Right.” Beau runs her sore tongue over her lips. She strokes Yasha open again with a single press of her thumb, easing into her molten-hot body, and flashes another bright grin. “Where were we?”

* * *

Number four is slower. By necessity, as Yasha convulses at every touch, all controls on her strength forgotten. It’s like riding a wave. If Beau’s not careful, she’s gonna get dragged under. Or, more likely, Yasha’s gonna buck up and smash her hip into Beau’s nose – a fight not even Beau’s magnificent ego can convince her she’ll win.

Gods above, though. Yasha’s stunning like this. So wet, so wanting. Making needy little keens at every squelching thrust of Beau’s hand. Her ears practically _glow,_ static crackling through her wild mane, and if Beau weren’t so busy kissing around her clit – not quite daring to touch it, for fear of impending nosemageddon – she might gnaw one of the metal charms in her hair. See how the lightning tastes.

If Yasha can take a _step_ after this, without falling over, Beau _deserves_ to be left behind.

That’s a nasty thought. An ugly one. It doesn’t belong here.

Beau rubs rough between her own legs as she fucks Yasha on her fingers. Each motion shark-toothed, angry, Like she can make herself forget why she’s really doing this, if she only fills her head with white-blistered sensation.

“Beau – Beau –“

The judder starts in Yasha’s feet, bouncing against the mattress. It spreads, fast as wildfire, up her thighs, her hips, her chest. She slams her shoulders back into the bed. Shrinking away from Beau, even as she presses closer. A paradox of want and need and everything else thudding through Beau’s head in time with this growing yearn inside her, this heat whirling lower and brighter, arcing out at every press her hand until she thinks she might go _crazy_ from it –

“Can’t – I can’t – too much –“

Words. They filter into Beau’s ears, over the punch of her pulse. The last of them – “ _Please –_ “ – fractures into a sob.

Beau eases away. Her lips are varnished with Yasha, her musk thick in her throat, her taste on her teeth.

“Yash’? You wanna stop?”

Yasha shakes her head. But her body cringes from wherever Beau tries to touch.

“Talk to me. Hey, buddy, hey – tell me what you want.”

Yasha twists away. Beau lets her, clambering from between her legs as Yasha curls onto her side. She's trembling all over like she’s been left out bare in the cold.

Beau chews her cheek. This bit, she’s not good at. There’s a right thing to say here. But finding it is Fjord’s thing, not hers. Or, y'know. The thing of any person, who's accustomed to more than one-night stands. After ten seconds of anxious hand-wringing, Beau tucks in behind Yasha, sweeping that entire charm-laden thicket of hair over her shoulder so she can kiss her nape. She strokes her heaving side with the backs of her nails.

“We don’t have to keep going, y’know.” Her voice is low, a thistle in the back of her throat. “This’s just for funsies. You’re doing fucking amazing, and – and if you’ve had enough, if it’s hurting, just say so. We’ll stop, okay? I promise. We’ll stop and I won’t like, judge you, or be disappointed, or whatever other arsehole-thing you’re thinking – “

Because Beau _is_ an arsehole. Everyone says so. Just not _that_ much of one. Not to any bedmate, but least of all to Yasha.

Yasha shakes her head again. The talismans in her hair clatter, metal and bone. “Want to – want to keep going.” Right. It’s a challenge. Neither of them know when to back down from those. “Just – need – I need –“

“A break.” Beau brushes a stray curl off Yasha’s cheek. She leans over, kissing her jaw, their bare bodies a sweaty sandwich. Her own need is a hot tangled wire, raking her insides, demanding attention. But she can ignore it, as long as it takes. “I think we can manage that.”

In the end, it’s only a few minutes before the quivers die away. Beau stays right there, smooching over Yasha’s shoulders. She hides her grin when Yasha starts talking five times, cutting each attempt off after only managing Beau’s name. Not long before she loses patience, reaches behind her, grabs Beau's nearest hand and tucks it demonstratively between her thighs from behind. Glaring at the far wall.

It is, Beau thinks, fucking _adorable._

“Ready?” she asks, just in case. Yasha grumbles, canting back to rub against Beau’s fingers. And – yeah, she’s still wet. That settles that.

* * *

Yasha has to tap out again, just briefly, after four. But she uses the opportunity to roll them, pin Beau to the bedsheets with one big hand, and eat her out until Beau’s kicking from the sheer force of the orgasm ripping through her, so Beau's not complaining. She flops against Beau’s thigh once she's done, hot breath breaking over her glistening folds. This does, of course, leave them with the resounding question of what they do for Number Five.

And – well. As Beau’s already on her back…

She blinks the shimmer from her eyes. Stretches her legs out, rubbing cramp from her calves. Then pats her chest, wincing as she grazes a hickey. “Yash’?”

Blue-purple eyes blink, sleepy-slow. “Mm?”

“C’mon up here.”

That re-digs the furrows on Yasha’s forehead. She pulls up from where she’s been nuzzling Beau’s leg, wiping the sheen from her lips before Beau can kiss it away _._ “Uh, what?”

“You know you waaaaant to,” Beau singsongs. Another pat. “So get up here already, and sit on my face.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Sit. On. My. Face.”

Yasha gives her that _I’m mildly concerned for your sanity_ look. “I _can’t_ , Beau.”

“You resolutely and utterly can.”

“No – like…” Yasha gestures down at herself. “You’ll _die_.”

“So I die happy.”

She means it. She’s exhausted (how Yasha is _awake,_ after not one, not two, not three, but _four_ spine-snapping, sparkling orgasms, she doesn't know. Must be that barbarian constitution). Still, Beau can’t deny that she wants this. Now she’s thought of the image, it’ll never leave her: Yasha rocking over her, taking her pleasure, using her mouth.

She _needs_ this. Every time she sees Yasha, it might be the last. And one day, Yasha might be gone again, and Beau’ll wait and wait and she’ll never come back. If she and Yasha haven’t worked through every kink in their systems by then, Beau’ll never forgive herself.

More decidedly unsexy thoughts. Yasha, thankfully, is gorgeous enough to make up for them. She pushes onto her knees, towering over Beau. Head tilted, like she’s figuring out the angles. Her shadow blocks the wavering candlelight, reaching for Beau, enveloping her, then receding back again.

Beau’s so ready. She’s shivery with anticipation – and, admittedly, from the draft from under the door, which makes her aware of every bead of moisture on her flesh. Between her legs she pulses, hot and sweet.

“Here,” she says, again. Pat-pat. “You won’t hurt me. I promise.”

“Only if you ask me to,” says Yasha. That sounds kinda like a promise, too.

She crawls up besides Beau, thumb brushing her mouth. Beau parts her lips. She tastes a tang of herself – or of Yasha? She can’t tell. Everything’s mellow now, blended into one.

“You’re sure?” Yasha asks. She only relents when Beau grabs her legs and starts trying to eel-wiggle under them. “Okay, okay. Just… pinch me, or something. Um. If I… uh, if you feel anything break.”

That should be terrifying. That should make Beau rethink letting a giant warrioress park herself on top of the bits she needs for breathing. That should absolutely, resolutely _not_ be a turn on.

Perhaps if Beau keeps telling herself that, it’ll make it so.

“Will do,” she croaks. Shooting her a double thumbs up.

Yasha nibbles the blood blister Beau bit into her lip. Then nods, swinging one leg over to rest on the other side of Beau’s face. And

carefully

 _oh_ so carefully

she

lowers

herself

down.

“Okay?” she whispers. Beau makes several very enthusiastic grunts to the affirmative. “Um. Last chance to back out?”

Beau glances up. Yasha's hands are wound into the bars above the headboard like she didn’t quite trust her own strength. No wonder – her thighs tremble around Beau’s head, which is as risky as it’s flattering, but Beau’s too busy mentally patting herself on the back to care.

“Quit worrying and enjoy it,” she tries to tell her. It comes out kinda muffly, so she just smacks Yasha on the arse – hard enough to make her yip – and dives back in.

* * *

Ah, Number Five.

Numero quinto.

Beau’s new favourite integer.

Yasha’s a mess. Twitchy, flinchy. Jolting away from every lick like Beau’s tongue is sandpapered. She makes soft, uninhibited noises as Beau grabs the underside of her legs and encourages her to grind. Delicate at first, barely grazing herself against Beau’s mouth. But the more Beau leans into her, fucking her with her tongue, pressing so deep into her silky slickness the muscle burns at the root; the tighter Yasha grips the railing. And the firmer her hips pivot down.

She stops giving Beau that nervy look. Just rolls into the pleasure of it, spine a sleek curve. Head tossed back, whining at the ceiling. She rocks onto Beau’s tongue like she’s breaking in a new horse.

It’s – well. Intense is one way of putting it. Mildly suffocating is another.

Beau snatches slurpy breaths wherever she can. Her nose is buried in wet curls, tongue working without any conscious thought. _Lick and flick and lick and flick, plunge and swirl and stroke._ They lose all tempo in those last, rabid minutes. Writhing against each other, chasing their end. Beau’s nails scrape red over Yasha’s arse; Yasha squeezes the headboard until the metal _creaks_ and starts to _bend._ She jerks fiercely against Beau, once, twice, again. Keening, louder each time, until the rafters seem to sing. Beau flicks once more at her tight, swollen clit, and –

Yasha _screams._

Holy _fuck._

After that, everything kind of happens at once.

_Snap._

There goes the headboard. Torn apart by Yasha’s bare fucking _hands._

She collapses back, limp like Beau licked the life out of her. It’s only sheer luck – and Beau’s fast reflexes – that stop her falling directly onto Beau’s windpipe and ending this entire escapade in a decidedly less fun way.

Beau wriggles out from under her bulk. Takes her a solid minute to massage the kink from her cervical vertebrae, flex sensation back into her jaw. She could’ve taken an hour. Yasha is _down._ She’s ruby-red and sweating like she’s just fought three knock-out tourneys back to back and oh-so fucking beautiful.

Beau can’t tell what’s spit and what’s slick, only that a lot of it’s coating her face. Neither does she care. She wipes herself off on the corner of the sheet and kicks one bare, sticky leg over Yasha’s.

“Five,” she murmurs. Twisting at the waist, leaning over Yasha, to kiss her like she’s feeding her air.

Which is the _prime_ moment for the door to bash open and Fjord to bash in.

Followed by every.

Other.

Member.

Of the Mighty Nein.

“Where is it!” Nott yells, while the rest of the team goggle at the two very naked, very exhausted women on the bed. Or, more accurately, lying in the wreckage of said bed: shredded sheets and chomped pillows, one blanket lost to the floor, headboard snapped clean in two. “Whatever foul beast who dares attack us – I demand that you show yourself!”

Then she takes stock of what’s directly in front of her. And freezes. Just like Yasha, Caleb, Fjord, and the breath in Beau’s lungs.

Her leg starts to jig again. Fuck. She _really_ hates long silences.

“I told you sooooooo,” comes Jester’s little singsong.

Caleb staggers back. He looks torn between – well, _looking;_ covering Nott’s eyes, or covering his own. “We thought it was a fight! Molly said Yasha never screams!”

Molly crooks a brow. “Evidently,” he says, smirk pinning Beau in place, “she just needed the right motivation.”

Yasha seems unbothered by the interruption. That, or she’s too tired to care. She hooks an arm around Beau’s waist, dragging her against her. “No monster,” she says, cracking a jawbreaker of a yawn. Her canines are a little too pointy. No wonder Beau can feel each and every lovebite, prickling sharp across her breasts. “You can go.”

“Please,” says Beau. Is having this much blood migrate to her face in point-two seconds flat a stroke risk? “ _Please_ go. Immediately.”

“Congratulations!” calls Jester, as Fjord ushers the rest of their team out. “You made her sound like she was Raging!”

“Are we going to have to pay for that bed?” Nott asks Fjord in a whisper, while Beau tries to come up with anything to say that isn’t numb-tongued mush. Then the door swings shut, and they’re alone.

More silence. Beau’s leg jiggles until Yasha hefts herself onto her side, dragging Beau around to face her. Her eyes are shut. She cuddles in until they’re forehead to forehead.

Beau’s mind struggles to process the past two minutes. She decides it’s wisest, for the sake of her sanity, to write them off. Instead, she lets herself limpen, head pillowed on one of Yasha’s arms. “Soooo,” she manages, with more of a slur than she ever gets from drinking. “Performance review? Barring the totally unplanned finale?”

“Mmmmmm,” says Yasha. “Next time, I’m gonna edge you for three hours.”

Spoken like a simple fact of the world. Beau swears a tingle pulses through her, just at the thought.

Those tingles only intensify, when she registers the _next time._

“I might die,” she says, because she’s honestly not sure she has the HP. “Fair warning.”

Yasha snuggles into her, sweat sealing their clasped bodies. “Then you die happy," she repeats. One big palm cups the back of Beau's skull, fingers threading through her hair. "Plus, Healing Hands. Remember?”

“I don’t think that’s what they’re supposed to be used for.” Beau’s mouth feels plump and sore. Her tongue’s a tired slug, and she counts herself lucky she’s still stringing together coherent sentences. Yasha must be aching just as sweetly, if in a rather different area. Not enough to stop her moving (the dream she could ever KO a barbarian with her magnificent lesbian prowess _might_ have been a teensy bit far-fetched). But hopefully, this’ll dissuade her from making a nocturnal getaway.

Hopefully.

“Will you be here?” Beau mumbles into Yasha’s stupidly swole bicep. “Y’know. When I wake up?”

Nails dig into her scalp. Beau’s struck by the sense of being something incredibly small and fragile, caught in the cosmos’s grip. Yasha opens her eyes, gaze holding her own, and Beau sees that same fear reflected.

 _What are you running from?_ Beau wants to ask. But she knows the moment she lets those words loose, Yasha will vanish forever.

“I hope so,” Yasha says, after too long a caesura.

Insight check: it’s not a lie. Equally, it’s not good enough.

Beau wants to lash out. Of course she does: punching is her go-to method of problem-solving. But as Fjord likes to remind her, she should reserve violence for the slavering rage-monsters they fight. Not her friends. 

Her fists knot tight against Yasha’s belly. Yasha's as soft as she ever is right now. Pliable, lax from release. Beau blows out, forcing herself to unclench in kind. It’s the most dangerous thing imaginable, to show vulnerability. To bandy your prayers before the universe, so it can snatch them away.

She does so anyway, with one last kiss to the hollow between Yasha’s clavicles. 

“Yeah. I hope so, too.”

Then Beau shuts her eyes and has faith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to feed your writer! Comments, please. Any length, any content. Quote your favourite line! Leave me an emoji! Splurge an entire joyous paragraph! Anything, everything!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm manifesting hard for the next episode. Always the next episode...
> 
> Please heed the new tag warnings! This chapter contains some mild body horror (nothing grosser than what we get in the actual series). Also, this is your obligatory warning that in real life, somnophilia can be a difficult kink to fulfil consensually. Be careful, and as always, don't take fanfic as a how-to guide.

The next job comes from the Gentleman. It entails a hefty hike over towards the Xhorhas border. They’re after a renegade smuggler, or whatever; Beau doesn’t care for the details. Point is, the journey will last at least a fortnight, which necessitates an early start the next day. Which means Yasha doesn’t get a lie in. Which means it was maybe, _possibly_ , a mistake to push her through five increasingly desperate variations on her O-face the night before.

Worth it, though. Because Yasha is _here._

Warm, thick. Bare beneath the covers. A wall between Beau and the world.

She’s on her side, the upwards curve of her shoulder blocking Beau’s view of the door. Beau could lie here, nestled into her body, chest swelling and shrinking to match Yasha’s exhales, forever and a day.

But – the mission! Money! Marauding about the countryside, making a name for the Mighty Nein! Fortune waits for no man, and for no jacked lesbian monk, either.

Thus begins phase 2 of Beau’s epic plan: After Fucking Yasha Nydoorin Into A Coma, Get Her Vertical Again.

Have you ever played Sleeping Barbarians? One child pretends to be out cold, while the others tiptoe closer and closer. Whoever dares poke the designated Barbarian earns themselves a point. Simple, right? Except that as soon as they make contact, the Barbarian jumps up and starts bellowing like they’ve entered a Rage. If they catch one of the runners and tackle them to the floor, they steal every point they’ve accrued.

Great educational game. Stealth attack and speed training: fun for all the family.

Just – y’know. Not _Beau’s_ family. Such frivolities were not indulged, in the Lionett house.

Amusing though it might be, that game has no bearing on reality. Poking Yasha’s stomach, murmuring her name at rising volume, blowing funky morning-breath on her face – all of it gains Beau nothing more than a sore finger. Fuck, her abs are _hard_.

Yasha slumbers on, tattooed mouth slack. Silent, bar the odd scratchy, back-throated snore.

It’s simply _not fair_ how her long dark lashes cast spiderweb shadows over her snowy skin. Just as unfair as the brittle morning light, which sharpens her cheekbones to daggers and glitters over her tumbling ombré hair like water in a weir. But if Beau’s halitosis can’t rouse Yasha (flavoured by the bacon she digs out the pocket of her discarded robe), composing lame-ass poetry in her head certainly won’t do the trick.

Time for more _assertive_ tactics.

Beau warms up her shoulder over the course of several rotations. She lines up her shot, pulling her fist back and forth. Then –

_thwack –_

socks Yasha (d20:18, solid hit; plus one to strength modifier) in the bicep.

It’s _effective_. At least, that’s one way of putting it.

Yasha’s eyes snap open. She twists: a movement so fast it can’t be conscious. One second she’s beneath Beau. The next, Beau slams the mattress, pinned by a huge pale hand around her throat.

Yasha _snarls_. A sound Beau’s only heard on the battlefield. Usually, when somebody’s about to get dead.

Shit.

She chokes. Scrabbling at Yasha’s wrist. Swings up. Tries to lock legs on Yasha’s waist and roll them. Succeeds only at the first half.

“Fuck – hggggg –“

Blood thumps her eardrums. Beau gargles for breath, straining until she’s red in the face – although, fair to her, Yasha’s blocking some important circulation.

The barbarian doesn’t notice. And – oh _shitball-bollocks-fuckity-damn…_

Her eyes are _black._

 _All_ black.

Empty, from her tear ducts to the faint creases at their far corners. No more blue, no more violet. Just shadows. Dark as the gaps between stars.

Is that rumble Beau’s pulse? Or thunder on the horizon? The clouds outside the window bulge into dark cumuli as those ghastly, membranous wings flex from Yasha’s spine. Their tips brush the ceiling. Dislocated, prehistoric. Clawed pterodactyl fingers, reaching for either side of the room…

Beau shrinks against the shredded sheet. Oh, right. Turning into a freaky necrotic angel is a common side-effect to unannounced wake-ups. Yasha might’ve mentioned something about that.

Hot breath breaks on Beau’s cheek. Yasha continues squeezing her handprint into Beau’s windpipe. The air around them snaps with arcane energy. It arcs from her earrings to the metal beads in her plaits, zigzagging between the hairs on Beau’s arms. Yasha bares her teeth to the roots of her canines. She looks fucking _feral,_ like she might bite Beau in two before her brain catches up with her.

Which really, _really_ begs the question of why the _fuck_ Beau’s turned on.

Like, seriously. Her thighs would be rubbing, if there wasn’t a super-buff, snarling barbarian between them.

Bad body. Bad, _bad_.

“Morning, sunshine,” she wheezes, reaching up to cradle Yasha’s cheek. “Today I learned it’s possible to be both terrified for my life and, like, _disgustingly_ horny.”

Yasha blinks. The darkness erodes, just a smidge, from her eyes and the tips of her hair. She presses Beau down a moment longer. Breathing like a bull, nostrils flared. Then sits, heavily, on her bare heels. Those wings – monstrous, marvellous, gigantic _wings –_ furl slowly towards her spine. They twist and distort, broken shadows, before vanishing like they’ve been sucked beneath her skin.

Gone.

“Sorry,” she says. Clears her throat, looks away. “Um. My bad.”

After spending a negligible amount of time catching her breath (like, seconds. Maybe a minute. _Maybe_ more than one) Beau crunches to sit. She strokes Yasha’s back, but finds nothing but night-cooled flesh. “I can think of a few ways you can make it up to me.”

Yasha doesn’t pounce on the opportunity to rail her through the bed. She’s not looking at Beau. Not touching her either. Her hands hang limp at her sides. “Sorry,” she repeats. Quieter. Her voice shrinks into her, gobbled up like her wings. “I – I hurt you – I didn’t mean to –“

“Hey, hey.” Beau grabs her face, holds her steady by the ears. Rings and studs scrape her palms. No electric shock: that’s all gone, crackled away. “It’s not like you didn’t warn us, okay?” Her voice jerks out of her in spurts. She tries to clear her throat again, but stops when Yasha winces. “Like, seriously. Is there a way to wake you up without facing the full Divine Fury?”

Yasha meets her eyes for all of a second. Then averts her gaze down. _Then_ finds only their naked bodies to focus on, and settles for glaring at the ceiling. “One.”

"One?"

Yasha chews her lip. Then touches Beau's, peeling it down a little with her thumb. "One."

 _Ohhhhh._ Memo to self: when waking barbarians, use your mouth. No wonder they didn’t teach the real trick to kids. “Nice. I’ll bear that in mind. Or, y’know. Just poke you with my staff from way back.”

Yasha’s ears are hot beneath her hands. “That might work, too.”

“Less fun, admittedly. Though the rest of the Nein might appreciate it, if we’re on the road.”

“Except Jester.”

Beau cackles. It’s easier to breathe with every passing moment, the oppressive, storm-heavy atmosphere siphoning out through the drafty windows. If they had a barometer, it’d be spinning.

Later, she might freak out about this. Near death experiences involving friends, and all that. This is Potential Trauma Material, right here. But in the moment, she feels like she’s just chomped through a whole bag of Molly’s mushrooms. High in the sky, no gravity to bring her down.

 _Is this what flying feels like?_ she wants to ask. But Yasha can’t fly. Not with those broken, blackened wings. And she still has that blanked-out look on her face, like she’s imagining all the ways Beau’s little wake-up routine could’ve gone worse…

Beau’s leg starts to jiggle. She chews her cheek.

“Are we… Yasha, are we gonna talk about this?”

“No,” says Yasha. She pushes herself up, reaching for the nearest of her discarded garments. Turning away.

Beau glares at her vacated dent in the covers. The space beneath the sheets is too large without Yasha to fill it. Their combined body heat leaches away.

It’s not that Beau’s _nosy_. Not like Nott and Jester. People have secrets! Like Caleb, with his parents. Just... Friends should be able to ask each other things, y’know? Like: _can I be the big spoon tonight?_ And: _hey, can I get an ETA on when you want to make good on that promise to edge me for three hours? So I can like, plan a full recovery day?_ And: _Yasha, why the fuck do you have wings?_

Beau shakes her head. She strips the covers, swinging her bare legs out from underneath. She promptly stubs her toe on one half of the iron head-bar, which has been ditched on the floor, along with everything else they wrecked. But at least once she’s finished hopping around the room and cursing, she finds Yasha half-dressed, watching her with the tiniest curl of a smile.

“Yeah, yeah; laugh it up. Beau nil, bed one.”

“What? No – I wasn’t – I wasn’t laughing. Just…” Yasha collects Beau’s trousers, which somehow wound up adorning the dresser. She turns them between her hands before holding them out. “Just. You’re very, uh. Cute, sometimes. That’s all.”

 _Only sometimes?_ The tease is right there, ready and waiting, dancing across Beau's mind. Pity that mind goes all dizzy and blurry, like she's got vertigo, when she looks into Yasha's eyes.

Must be residual oxygen-depletion. From the strangling. Yes.

Beau grabs her croptop and wiggles into it double-time. “Right,” she says, snatching the pants. Then louder: “Right! We good to go?”

Yasha jumps when their fingers brush. A pink flush clings to her pale skin like it doesn’t want to let her go. She does that “Okay-okay-okay” thing – the one she and Beau and Jester have all picked up, though Beau’s not sure which of them started it. Then slips her furred shawl over her broad shoulders, latches the last of her belts, and leads the way.

* * *

They pay for the bed, in the end.

Beau styles out their confrontation with the innkeeper, leaning against the counter and grinning in a way which, she hopes, elucidates _exactly_ what they were doing when the headboard snapped. Yasha manages to whittle the price down just by looming over the man – a jowly gnome with a sweat problem to rival The Gentleman – and glaring. Thank fuck Persuasion can take an advantage from Strength.

In the end, they part only with five gold pieces and a solid chunk of their dignity. The rest of the Nein spend the entire exchange hovering around the doorway, blocking the passage of the other guests and generally making themselves a nuisance. Expressions range from disapproving (Fjord) to amused (Jester). If Molly congratulates Yasha one more time, Beau suspects she might actually melt into the floor and die.

After they apologise again (and pour enough gold onto the problem that they won’t be run out of this town, next time they ride West), the Nein load up their cart and get on the road. Crisp air nibbles Beau’s exposed stomach. The snorts of Crapper & Co. plume white as dragonbreath. Their cart rattles as they swerve between potholes and freeze-thaw cracks in the road.

This is it: the rhythm of Beau’s new, itinerant life. She likes it far more than her old one. There’s a lightness in her feet nowadays, to match the restless roam of her heart. She doesn’t need a home. Doesn’t need a family. Just an adventure and the open sky.

Her gaze slants to Yasha. She sits at the back of the cart, on the opposite side to the janky wheel, providing counterbalance, leafing through her little book of flowers. Her fingertips hover over the pressed, dry petals that adorn each page, like she's afraid they might crumble at her touch.

Seems pretty engrossed. She doesn’t glance up.

Beau settles beside Caleb instead.

“You’re being quiet,” the wizard observes. He's counting his latest hoard of paper. Two hundred gold pieces’ worth; they cleared out the Pumats’ shop. What he does with it, Beau hasn’t the foggiest. Origami? Starting fires – no, not that. Most likely, it's to stop the breeze blowing straight through his raggedy coat.

That same breeze lifts a few threads of Yasha’s hair. She shuts her book of flowers before any drift away.

“Sore tongue,” says Beau, and sniggers as Yasha turns luminous and Caleb blinks several times like that image is a dust mote, caught in his eye.

* * *

It’s an easy journey out of the town. They spend the first day navigating the overspill of shacks and shanties that surround the main walls, camping under the stars. By the second evening, the settlements have winnowed into fields of gold post-harvest stubble and crawling blackberry briar.

Damp soaks the earth. Mushrooms poke through, some mucilaginous yellow, others the white of dead flesh, offset by moist pink gills. Jester insists on checking for gnomes, despite Fjord’s admonishments about cultural sensitivity. As Yasha wanders off in search of flowers, Beau helps Molly harvest the fungi, edible and recreational alike – though she limits herself to only the tiniest bites of the latter.

They turn off the main road before nightfall on the third day, winding through dense woodland. This is one of many forests to march across Exandria's rolling hills, old as the earth, gnarled as arthritic fingers. As sunset approaches, the branches claw the sky bloody. It's designated Wildlands: lawless, far from any patrol route of the King’s Guard. Which means, Fjord says, they have to stay both vigilant and together.

Beau takes her turn walking alongside the cart. As such, when she notes a shape hewn into a dead tree, a few steps off the overgrown trail, she can wander over to check it out.

Who etched it here? It’s not like there are any local towns. Still, the artist obviously dedicated time to this likeness. The carving depicts a doe, pert-eared, gazing out of the bark. It would be quite the portrait, though Beau’s never known any forest creature to stay in one pose long enough for a whittler to capture it.

The only flaw is the mouth. Too wide, too jagged. Three gashes, stabbed into the bark, to form an angular smile. Like the artist changed his mind partway and decided to turn it into a crocodile.

Beau strokes the cuts. The trunk is more bone than wood, worn smooth by the weather. It unnerves her, though she can’t say why.

* * *

Onwards. The black canopy closes above them. It’s not like Beau’s never camped out before. Still, a frisson of _not-rightness_ jitters under her skin, like she’s a lantern trapping a moth.

She tamps down on it. They’re the Mighty Nein! Whatever the night throws their way, they can withstand it, defeat it, together.

Certainly, any sense of danger doesn’t stop her from hopping out of the cart after Yasha, when she declares it’s time for a loo break and ambles off into the trees.

“Gotta stay together, right?” Beau calls back over her shoulder. Fjord restrains himself to a snort, while Jester's wink is so exaggerated Nott asks if a bug’s flown into her eye.

 _Idiots_ , thinks Beau, with far too much fondness. She flips Fjord off, following the crunch of Yasha’s boots through the leaf litter and dry twigs. They snap like she’s walking through a charnel house, grinding bones to dust beneath her heels.

A hop-skip over a fallen trunk, and Beau catches up. “Nice distraction,” she says, patting Yasha's arm.

"Huh?"

Beau checks behind, ensuring they're out of sight. Then she drags Yasha around by the clasps of her cloak and shoves her back against the nearest tree. “Might be a whole week before we actually have a bed again, so, y’know.” A shrug, a smirk. A press of her body, all up the long lines of Yasha’s own. “We should make the most of this. Right?”

She pushes onto her tiptoes. Smirks at Yasha a moment, so close their eyelashes tickle. Then licks, light as Frumpkin, at her striped lip.

Yasha shuts her eyes. Her sigh sounds relieved, though Beau can’t think why. Either way, she wants to taste it, over and over. She pins Yasha there, body to body, bark scratching the knee she pushes between hers.

Kinda hot, to imagine she could ever hold Yasha in one place. Kinda hotter, to know Yasha would stay for her, not fight her, open up so beautifully and be hers, hers, _hers_ …

Beau's hands must be cold; Yasha jumps when they slide under her feathered shrug, over her bare shoulders. Beau mutters an apology, but Yasha has already pressed into the touch. When Beau sinks back onto the balls of her feet, she tilts her head like her throat was made to be bared.

Oh, _fuck_. Warmth pulses through Beau. It’s accompanied by that ridiculous flicker of _fondness,_ the one she never knows whether to cup and protect from the wind or extinguish, once and for all. Now certainly isn't the time to figure it out. Beau kisses Yasha’s pulsepoint, icy hands mapping the shape of her, full bust and thick muscle. She smooths down the sleek cut of her arms to tangle their fingers.

But that just makes her remember how those same fingers felt at her neck. For a moment she can feel Yasha’s grip, see her black-leaking eyes. Are those skeletal limbs of the tree above her, or black, broken wings –?

“Uh,” whispers Yasha, quiet as the leaves, which rustle timid on near-naked branches above. “Beau?”

Beau’s eyes refocus. She sucks in. Stopped breathing there, a moment. Like the thumbs against her windpipe were spun from more than imagination. “Mm?”

“I, uh... Nice as this is. And it is. Very nice. I did actually need to –“

...Ah. “So you _weren’t_ just overcome by a sudden, irrepressible desire to be ravished.”

“I would not say no to being ravished? Just – I didn’t think – I wasn’t sure if you’d – after yesterday morning - I – “

Beau lets her tie herself in knots several more seconds before having mercy. “Rain check, then,” she says, stepping away. She holds Yasha’s hands a moment too long, trying not to think about how they’d feel pressing her down, stealing her breath. Tar-black eyes, wings crackling dark as thunderclouds…

“Rain check,” Yasha agrees, shaking off her grip. She speedily sidles into the bushes.

Beau kicks around their little clearing. Whistles a bit. She sweeps a patch of leaves away from the base of the tree, grimaces at the creepy crawlies beneath, and covers them up again. By the time Yasha returns, the heat has sunk from her cheeks. It lodges low within her instead, glowing like embers. Awaiting reignition.

“Rain… checked?” says Yasha, adjusting her belt.

"Totally a new euphemism for taking a piss. You see anything, out there? Anything… suspish?”

“Dark. Trees?”

Low perception check, then. That bodes well. Some big, fangy forest-monster could be creeping up on them _right this second._ But hey. What’s life without a little risk?

Beau shrugs. “Good enough for me.”

She tangles a fistful of grey-white hair and tugs Yasha down for a kiss: long, wet, slow. Fucking her tongue between her lips in a slick promise of what’s to come. Until they’re both shudder-breathed, jelly-kneed. Beau leans back against the tree and Yasha leans into her, and her weight against Beau’s chest makes her heart flip-flop in its cage. 

“How do you want to do this?” she breathes.

Yasha’s eyes widen. “ _What?_ ”

“Oh – right, sorry. I mean, _this._ ” A downwards wave. “You in the mood to be ravished yet? I mean, we could always just cuddle. I have that five gold now, for a hug.” She smacks the backs of her knuckles against Yasha’s tricep. “Those arms are worth a lot, right.”

It’s been months since they all met at the circus. How many, Beau can't say. Time’s washy in the adventuring business. You’re always moving through liminal space, never quite there nor here. She doesn't have the patience to count the passing days. Hell, she started telling everyone she was twenty-six as soon as she stopped being a teenager, because that seemed like a solid, respectable age for a Cobalt Soul monk to GTFO and travel the world. She can’t recall if enough years have floated by for her to be telling the truth.

Still, that reminder of their meeting earns another of Yasha’s smiles. It darts across her face, fast as the sparrows that flitted through the hedgerows that morning, as the Nein wound along the green ribbons of Wildemount's cross-country roads.

Beau takes a mental snapshot, files it away. A memento, that’s all. For the next time Yasha’s gone.

“You can pay me back later,” Yasha says. Her hand flattens against Beau’s stomach, keeping her against the tree. It’s not on her throat, but it might as well be, for the way it makes Beau limpen, quiver, give herself in.

Beau's not sure she likes this new feeling: the laxness in her muscles, an undertow she could succumb to so easily, let it sweep her away. It makes her grind her molars. Discomfort chews between the bumps on her spine.

And yet at the same time…

It would be nice, just for once. To let go. Allow the current to take her wherever it will.

Beau doesn’t want to follow that train of thought. It'll only drag her over a waterfall. For now at least, there’s a hand on her abs, measuring the rise and fall of her breath. It’s wonderfully rough and wonderfully warm, more grounding than balancing on her bo-staff for an hour and saying _om._

“You’re sure?” she asks, as Yasha sinks to her knees. “There’s, like, bugs and stuff.” To which Yasha pinches a woodlouse and demonstratively pops it in her mouth. Ew. What a weird power-move. Beau rolls her head against the tree, mussing her bun. Above, the canopy is pierced by the distant red-gold wash from their fire. The others must’ve decided to call it a night, set up the camp. “Yeah, that better not be the only thing you plan on eating.”

Yasha hums. She nuzzles Beau’s stomach, plucking apart her belt and slipping her trousers down her hips. When Beau rocks against her, craving friction, she hoists one of her thighs, hooking it over her shoulder, and tucks in close enough to tease with every breath.

A kiss to her navel. Another, below.

Beau digs her boot heel into Yasha’s back and the sword strapped diagonal across it. Clasping her close. Wanting more, wanting faster. Wanting it to last forever. She winds her fists in black-to-white curls as Yasha mouths at her abdominal muscles, kissing in towards the crux of her body.

By the time Yasha rolls the soft of her tongue against her, Beau’s already quivering.

She moans, low and loud, trusting it’ll be swallowed by the sounds of the forest - but not giving much of a damn if it isn’t. Yasha’s hot silk. She kisses Beau, parting her pleats, tongue flicking just inside. There and gone again, feather-light. That’s in contrast to the grip on her hips. It feels like Yasha could grind the bones of her pelvis to powder, if she only _squeezed._

Another one for the long list of Things That Probably Shouldn't Turn Beauregard Lionett On.

Beau sags against the tree, mind fuzzing over. Lost to it: the swell and flick of Yasha’s tongue. The way she angles against Beau, burying herself in her, eating her open.

She looks down, just once. Finds Yasha looking _up_ at her, reading her with just as much rigour as Caleb when he ploughs through a spellbook. It’s too intense and too intimate, but Beau can’t look away. Her core ignites like black-powder, and all she can think about is how she wants Yasha in this way, in every way: bound to her bed and begging; fucking Beau rough with a white hand cutting off her air –

Beau swallows, touching her throat. Yasha didn’t leave bruises. The only lingering tightness is in Beau's head. Maybe she should update her list of things friends should be able to ask each other. _Can I be the big spoon, why the fuck do you have wings,_ and _hey, d’you think you can maybe strangle me, next time we do the do?_

Lightning arcs. A sharp suck at her clit. Beau’s leg bounces on Yasha’s back. She rubs herself against Yasha’s mouth, so close, so _close –_

Which is _precisely_ when the arrow thuds into the tree. Two inches from her eye.

* * *

Yasha pulls back, lips connected to Beau by a glittering thread. Beau whines. Not even the shock of barbed steel slicing wood could bring her down from this high. She's trembling, sweating, hot from the tips of her ears to her curling toes.

“Hold it,” says whichever bastard bandit has accosted them. His words float to Beau like blossoms, through a satin haze. 

A satin haze that's _fading_. Ugh. Beau’s gonna kill this man. _Eviscerate_ him. She tries to angle herself against Yasha's mouth once more - come on; come _on;_ that's all she needs. Who knows? Perhaps the three men who’ve slunk from the treeline have the common human decency to let her hit her peak.

Tragically, vagabonds who accost travellers in the wildwoods aren’t renowned for their manners.

“You,” the bandit says, gesturing with his nocked bow. "Big girl. On your feet."

Yasha holds Beau in place with no visible strain. She licks her lips, glaring at the intruders over her shoulder. Then, slowly, rises. Her furs bulk out her silhouette, her shape as vast as the overhanging oaks. The bandit blanches - though he doesn’t lower his weapon.

“You stay right there, and you listen, or you and your lady friend both get an arrow in the eye. Here’s how this goes down.”

Beau’s breaths wheeze from her, each shallower than the last. The coil inside her loosens, edge slipping further from her reach. She knows she’s not at her scariest like this: trousers halfway to ankles, gooseflesh pimpling her dark legs. But these arseholes have wronged her, stolen what was supposed to be hers. She scowls fiercely enough to make up for any deficit in dress.

“You’re going to lay down your money, your weapons, anything of value on your person,” the bandit continues. To his credit, he only looks Beau in the eye. Wise man, not to get distracted. No doubt, he's used to picking off victims at their most vulnerable - whether they're taking a crap at the side of the road, or getting tongue-fucked against a tree by a barbarian. Either way, Beau doubts she's the first person he's caught in a position that might, by politer types than her, be described as _compromising._

It doesn't make this any less embarrassing. Or her any less determined to make him regret it.

“You’re not going to shout out for your companions," he says, crossbow on level with her heart. "And you’re not going to resist.”

Beau looks at Yasha. Yasha looks at Beau.

“You got a little,” says Beau, motioning to the side of her mouth. Yasha licks it off.

“Thanks.”

The bandit clears his throat. His two companions flank him. Beau dispenses nicknames in her head: Hawknose, Snaggletooth, Scars. The latter must've fired the warning shot. He restrings, menacing the dark woods in case the rest of the Nein approach.

Not that Beau and Yasha need them. A trio of human bandits? Ha. They eat this shit for _breakfast._

“Your _attention_ please, ladies –“

“Can I pull up my pants?” Beau asks. She picks at her palms, where the bark scraped open a callous. “Bit drafty, here.”

The bandit – Hawknose – narrows his glare. “Don’t try anything. You take your belt off first. Kick that staff away.”

Beau does so, shimmying the last belt – and her shuriken with it – to puddle around her boots. Yasha’s slicked her sweet. The night chill tingles. She winces as she eases up her trousers, buckles herself away.

Yasha, under Snaggletooth’s direction, swings her greatsword from her back and lowers it to the floor. She glances at Beau as she rises, smile playing over damp lips.

“Kill or scare?” she asks, loud enough for them all to hear.

“What?” asks Hawknose. Yasha ignores him. Looking only at Beau, head cocked to one side.

Beau eyes the point of the nearest arrow. Her own grin digs into her cheeks. She balls her fists, Yasha mimicking. Both settle into fighting stances. Quarter-squat, gravity low.

“There’s three of them. Bit of both?”

“Bit of both,” agrees Yasha. And charges.

The first arrow – _shnk –_ catches her in the shoulder.

(“I-would-like-to-Rage!”)

Doesn’t even slow her down.

Yasha barrels into Hawknose. Knocking him prone, air exploding from his lungs.

Beau’s already on Scars. No chance for him to swing up his weapon to menace the giant barbarian-shaped threat. Haymaker – _boom –_ right in the throat. As he collapses, gargling, Beau steps up onto Yasha’s bent knee. Propels herself off, swinging around, and –

_Crack._

Roundhouse kick, stoving Snaggletooth’s ribs.

Wham, bam, thank you ma’am. Felling them takes Beau and Yasha all of five seconds, tops. The forest falls silent again, but for their moans. If she and Yasha are out of breath, they owe it more to their previous activities.

Yasha rises, one boot still on Hawknose. She rams him back into the leaf litter when he tries to scrabble away. Mashes him there, wet leaves squidging under his ragged deerhide coat.

Beau kicks the bow from Snaggletooth. Then – when she sees Scars rolling over, gargling his own spit as he struggles to take aim – somersaults across Yasha, up and over, pushing off her back at the apex of the flip.

She lands on Scars's wrist.

 _Snap._ There it goes: cracking back on itself in a direction that hurts to look at too long. He'd scream, if he could only find the air between coughing up gushes of blood.

Oopsie. That blow to the throat must've punctured something. What a shame. Still, let this be a lesson: Thou shalt not waylay innocent travellers, who are just trying to fit in one spectacular, shimmery orgasm before sleep.

Beau intends to loop her arm through Yasha's and saunter off. Maybe come up with some pithy comment to toss back at their fallen foes. But before she can step away, something catches her eye, tucked into the grubby neckhole of Scars's shirt.

Beau bends at the waist, frowning.

“What’s this?” she asks. A charm? A piece of bone? 

The man only moans, sputtering red. Beau shrugs. She hunkers, snapping the leather thong from his throat (and ignoring her instinct to giggle at the word _thong._ Yeah, yeah; she’s been hanging with Jester too long).

Weird. The pendant isn't bone at all. Beau turns it over, examining the shard of antler, still wrapped in its velvet. Dark copper dapples old, dried skin.

A quiet grunt from beside her. Yasha squints at the arrow protruding from her shoulder like she’s only just noticed it. Before Beau can protest, she grips the speckled fletching and yanks it free.

Yikes. Beau never finished the health-focused portion of her studies. Those lectures, always in the early morning, clashed with her regularly scheduled hangovers. Still, it doesn’t take a fully trained monk of the Cobalt Soul to know Poitier arrows are designed to go _in,_ not out.

Yasha doesn’t flinch. She shakes flesh from the steel head, claps a hand over the glugging wound, and murmurs in Celestial.

What a language. It’s unlike anything Beau’s heard. Or, for that matter, anything she wants to hear again. Chiming bells, the hum of wet fingers along quartz. An entire choral harmony, chanting words her human ears don’t quite feel developed enough to understand. As Beau watches, the arrow hole seals over like it never was, filled in with marble-white flesh.

Even a fallen Aasimir still speaks the language of heaven. The words are glass splinters, embedded in Beau’s skin. She can’t get their echoes out of her skull. Yasha looks so far away, though there’s barely three feet between them, and Beau has to resist the urge to reach out and touch...

She shakes her head until the crystalline tones dissipate, pressing the soles of her boots into the squishy forest floor. A reassurance that her feet remain on the ground.

“So,” she says, smirking down at the bandits (with a none-too-subtle readjustment of her trousers). “That was fun.”

“We didn’t kill any of them,” Yasha points out.

“Eh. Plenty wolves out here. Let them finish the job.” She glances up at Yasha, low-lashed, while the bandits wheedle for mercy. “We have our own business to finish."

Or they would do. If a rangy ginger cat didn't slink out of the trees, winding between Beau's ankles.

Beau _sighs._

“Guys?” Fjord follows Frumpkin from the brush. “What _happened_?”

Caleb pads after. A flick of his fingers and Frumpkin sashays to Yasha, impersonating a woodsaw the whole way. For all those interested: Beau does _not_ find it adorable, how delighted she looks whenever a small animal shows her affection rather than fear. In fact, Beau _refutes_ any such observations. Should anyone care to make an accusation to that end, her non-existent lawyers will be in touch.

...But it’s the _tiniest_ bit cute, when Yasha scoops up the cat and lets him rub his cheek on hers.

Shut up.

“Bandits,” says Beau, like that isn’t obvious. Tucking the pendant into her pocket, she swaggers over to Hawknose and boots him again, just to make him sob. She's still sensitive. Her trousers chafe against damp, tingling heat. Nothing she can't handle. "These fine fellows were even kind enough, after making their polite introduction, to offer to lead us back to their base of operations, so we can take whatever we want.”

Molly rests one scimitar over his slender shoulder. “Is that right?” he drawls, while Nott eagerly scrambles over and starts patting their pockets.

The bandits exchange hazy glances – those who can focus at all. Hawknose and Snaggletooth grudgingly nod, as Nott finishes her inspection and Jester hauls them to their feet.

Scars doesn’t join in. He spits blood at Beau, torn face forming a vicious, lopsided grin.

Beau returns it. “Thanks _so_ much for your hospitality,” she says, with a mocking bow that makes Fjord whap the back of her head. “Please, after you.”

* * *

It’s a good haul. The bandits reside in a cove above a freshwater stream, jampacked with blankets, riches, furs. They must make good trade on the forest trails. Makes Beau wonder how many merchants shave time from their journey by cutting out this loop of the King’s Road. The Nein walk away with their packs brimming, supplies replenished for the journey ahead.

And if Beau smacks Yasha’s arse and growls up in the direction of her faraway ear, “Need another bathroom break yet?” in a voice that hopefully makes the subject matter sound sexy…

…Well, that’s no one’s business but their own.

No matter what the rest of the team think.

“Yaaaaaaaaaaaaasha.” Jester sidles over. She wraps a blue arm around Yasha, dragging her against her side, smirk as devilish as her bloodline. “Did it _really_ take you guys so long to dispatch three _weak_ little human _bandits?_ ” 

Yasha does that thing where she shrinks into herself. Like maybe, if she stays very, very quiet, the world won’t notice the hulking storm-haired barbarian in its midst. It works on a grand total of no one, ever; least of all Jester. Still, before the tiefling can launch into a full, graphically detailed interrogation, Beau bumps their hips, squishing Jester between them, and tugs the nearest of her horns.

“Number twos,” she deadpans, as Jester whines and slaps her with her tail. “Blame it on the mushrooms.”

“You dare besmirch my mushrooms?” asks Molly. He leans against Yasha’s far side with the ease of someone who's never had to pay for her hugs.

“Ooh,” says Nott, scrambling over to grab Beau’s left leg. “Are we huddling? Team huddle, guys!”

She’s light enough that Beau can keep shuffling forward. “I’m besmirching,” she tells Molly, grinning. ‘Smirching the ‘shrooms. Consider your ‘shrooms fully ‘smirched.”

Jester elbows her. “I think you smirched more than shrooms…”

“And I think I’ve lost track of this conversation,” mutters Caleb, from where he's leading the horses, several paces behind.

“And _I_ think,” says Fjord, “that’s for the best.”

They navigate the dense thickets of woodland after restocking their cart. It’s disarming, how easily Beau falls into their banter, their camaraderie, the squeeze of Jester’s arm on her waist. As they rekindle their fire and slump around it (and Yasha and Nott team up to convince them to at least _try_ a rat) warmth finds a hole in Beau’s chest and worms deep within. Seeping into her thoracic cavity like she caught an arrow, too.

She doesn’t mind that she missed out on a mind-melty orgasm. Much. Especially since Molly and Fjord assign themselves first watch and (after much giggling and shoving from Jester) Yasha vacates her coveted sleep spot by the fire and pads over to tuck in beside her, against the hollow of a tree.

She freezes when Beau cracks an eye. “Did I wake you?”

Beau shakes her head. Sleep’s a faint fuzz, stroking the edges of her mind like the distant hum of bees. A dying animal cries, somewhere in the distant night. Whenever she shuts her eyes, letting herself be lulled by the low crackle of their fire, its reedy wails cut through.

It sounds, she thinks, flipping back a corner of her blanket so Yasha can shuffle beneath, kinda like a deer.

Yasha folds her own blanket over them both, enveloping as a wing. She says nothing more. Just curls up, palms resting on Beau’s chest, arms tucked between them. She nudges their legs together and shuts her eyes.

And – well. It’s too good an opportunity to miss. That’s Beau’s excuse, if anyone asks.

Yasha’s quiet. Too quiet. Not even the faint rustle of an inhalation.

No fucking way is she sleeping. Beau knows it. Partly because her shoulders are too stiff, craggy with tensed muscle. Mostly because when Beau rests her thigh along the seam of Yasha’s – _testing, testing –_ a held breath hisses between her teeth and she eases her knees apart. Just enough for Beau to slip between.

For the longest of times, it’s slow and sweet as syrup. Beau rocks into her, timed to the grunt and wheeze of Nott’s snores. Any incidental snaps of twigs or rustles of leaves can be blamed on the roar of the fire. When Beau hitches her leg higher, Yasha makes this stuttery, half-bitten-off noise that Beau’s gonna replay in her head for the next decade, minimum.

She’s good at being quiet. Like a rock. A really, _really_ sexy rock.

Beau intends to make the most of it. And, preferably, to make that rock _crumble._

It’s hot beneath the blankets. Condensation beads their clothes. Sweat sticks hair to leather, leather to skin.

It only gets hotter, when Beau finds what she’s looking for – the catch on Yasha’s belt. The _clink_ makes Yasha blink at her, light so low Beau shouldn’t be able to tell which of her eyes is the violet of a winter sea-squall. Except, y’know, that whole thing where she’s memorised every facet of Yasha's stupid, gorgeous face.

“Okay?” Beau murmurs. Tracing the buckle: the jagged prongs of the Stormlord’s insignia. Easing apart the buttons on Yasha’s trousers, she draws the same symbol on the downy skin beneath. Shaping zigzags with her nail, little bolts of lightning. “You want it?”

Yasha nods so furiously she almost slaps Beau with the trinkets in her hair. Thank fuck for her tendency to go commando. It’s breathlessly easy, for Beau to slip her hand lower. Curls tangle around her fingertips as Beau pets the hot bud of her clit – just once, before pulling away.

Yasha grunts against her neck. This is as demanding as she ever gets: pushing against Beau, one boot braced on the ground. Beau fucking _loves_ it. The bunch of her strong body, the hungry curl of her hips.

She touches her again. Again, moves away.

Yasha swallows, squirms. Tries to wriggle one hand down between them – but Beau catches it and replaces it on her chest. She has to bite her cheek when Yasha palms her breast, thumb pressing firm on the nipple.

“No, no.” Her whisper is a husk. Nott snores on. “This is about _you_. And you’re gonna leave it all to me.”

Not that it wouldn’t be _nice_ , to rediscover that melty, heady place Yasha sent her to, before Banditus Interruptus. But right now, Beau wants to focus. Wants to take Yasha apart.

She waits until Yasha relaxes. Until she grumbles her acquiescence, nuzzling closer. The air around Beau buzzes with static. They’re in the eye of a localised storm. She tastes ozone when she kisses Yasha, tongue tingling like she’s licked charged metal, devouring every moan. She presses lower. Yasha has to crunch up to give her access, one leg slung over Beau’s hips. Their shape beneath the blanket must be conspicuously lumpy, but a glance over Yasha’s shoulder assures Beau no one’s looking.

Her fuzz is rough against Beau’s exploring fingertips – then slick and damp, tipped with need. When Beau strokes her folds, parting them with the tip of a nail (kept short for martial arts, obviously – any sex-related bonuses are _purely_ coincidental) Yasha cants forward. Her gasp bursts blood-hot against Beau's throat. She buries her face there, dark lashes tickling, as Beau’s lips find her ear. She kisses along its crest. Nibbles the nearest stud, tasting metal, and tugs it between her teeth.

“Good girl,” she murmurs. Yasha rocks hard against her, keening high enough to make Nott snort and roll. “Grind down for me, that’s it…”

The endorphin kick when Yasha obeys – breathtakingly beautiful, played to the press of Beau’s hand – is better than any critical hit Beau's struck so far. Fuck, but she loves having her like this. Loves making her whimper and toss her head, composure disintegrating. Getting her flustered and wild and panting, _desperate,_ quivering at every touch; past that point where Beau knows, just _knows,_ she’s holding herself back, so she can cum for at a word of command –

And – well. Words. Beau’s not the best with them. Not when she’s trying to be kind, or compassionate, or any of those other _Issues_ Fjord’s helping with. But here? She likes to think this is one place where her charisma stats work to her advantage.

“You like that?” she whispers, kissing the top of Yasha’s head. “Like being my good girl?” Then, feeling out her next sentence, ready to swallow it at the first _hint_ this isn’t where Yasha gets off – “Because I know you _love_ being such a filthy little slut for me, fucking yourself on my fingers in the middle of the camp.”

And Yasha –

_whimpers._

She clenches, the leg around Beau locking them together. Swivels against her, hard.

Beau’s grateful for the long hours she spent punching various types of wall under the guidance of the Cobalt Soul. If not for the old microfractures in her knuckles, she might be looking at a dislocation right about now.

Sharp teeth fasten on her shoulder. When she pets her clit, Yasha _bites_ , stifling her moan.

The pain is a bright blister. It pops across all of Beau’s senses, throbbing low inside. Fuck, but she might hit her peak without a touch, revved up on Yasha alone. Her smell, her weight, her teeth in Beau's neck –

Almost as good as her hand around it would be.

“God, you’re so wet for me.” Beau’s volume edges up. _Just_ a little – though Nott’s still snoring, she’s sure, beyond Yasha’s back. “Go on, gorgeous; get yourself off on my hand. Show me how much you need me –“

“Yasha?”

Yasha locks up. Every part of her frozen. Except where she pulses on Beau’s fingers, still tucked warm and wet inside.

Fjord’s shadow falls over them. They’re very obviously smushed together, Yasha’s leg squeezing Beau’s hip. But between her cloak, the double layer of blankets and the dim red glow of the fire, their position _might_ be mistaken for snuggling, as opposed to the making of the two-backed beast. If an onlooker was feeling generous. Or perhaps, if they were half asleep.

Fjord yawns, poking Yasha’s shoulder with the toe of his boot. “Hey, Yash, you still awake? Molly took the wrong mushrooms – he’s sleeping it off. Wanna take your watch early, keep me company?”

Yasha swallows. Her bitemark burns against Beau’s neck, exhales agitating each imprint of her too-sharp teeth. Her nose rubs the sensitive patch behind Beau’s ear.

Beau squeezes her eyes tight shut. Does her best to slow her breathing.

And curls her fingers.

Giving the tiniest, _eensiest_ press into Yasha’s softness. Rubbing, slow but firm, into the plush slick of her. Because she’s Beauregard _fucking_ Lionett, and she’s never seen a button she didn’t want to push.

“I,” says Yasha. Her voice cracks in her throat. Beau hides her smirk in the feathers of her shawl. Fucking her with grinds of her hand. “I – I’ll be right there, I –“

“Cool, cool.” Fjord wears his frown in his voice; Beau doesn’t need to see it. “Sorry; saw you come over last, so I figured you were most likely to still be up. Didn’t wake you, did I?”

Yasha shakes her head. Her hair tickles Beau’s nose. It's unwashed, a little greasy, but no worse than the rest of them. She wills away the sneeze, still stroking tiny circles behind Yasha’s clit.

Yasha’s fucking _soaked_. If Beau concentrates, she can _hear_ it. A hot trickle gathers in the cup of her hand, and Yasha’s _twitching_ into every touch; and fuck, Beau could tease her like this for _days_ –

“No,” Yasha manages. Anyone else, it might sound forced. But Yasha makes every conversation feel like a marathon, regardless of whether she’s got Beau knuckle-deep in her cunt. In fact, Beau thinks, with another evil little curl, this might actually make her more… verbose. “N-no, if you’d woken me up, you’d know. I – I am not a morning person.”

“Understatement of the entire millennium. Think Caleb’s still terrified after you sprung the wings on him that time on the old swamp road…” Fjord chuckles under his breath, cutting across the rumble of their teammates’ snores. “Good times. Right.” He thumbs over his shoulder. “I’ll shift Molly. See you up on the cart.”

“Mmmmmmhm,” says Yasha, voice jumping half an octave. Which roughly translates, Beau guesses, to ‘please, by the love of the Stormlord and the Traveller and any other deifically inclined being, walk away _right this fucking second._ ’

For once, the Stormlord and the Traveller and other deifically inclined beings listen. Fjord goes. And Beau – Beau doesn’t give her that one last tickle of her clit that she _knows_ would push Yasha over. She pulls out instead, kissing Yasha’s pale jaw in answer to her growl.

Hey. If bandits got between her and her funtimes, it’s only fair to make Yasha understand the depths of her frustration. Right?

“Take watch with me sometime,” she whispers. “Let’s see if we can both make it to the big finale.”

The growl tapers out. Not before Yasha rubs herself one last time against Beau, bare against the leg of her trousers. “W-we’re not supposed to fuck on watch. Caleb said.”

Beau finds herself waiting for the dying deer’s howl to punctuate the crackling flames. It doesn’t come. Must’ve gone quiet while they were distracted, breathed its last. “Yeah, like any of us listen to what Caleb says. We’re the Mighty Nein. What’s the worst that can happen?”

Yasha gives her a look that, even in the low light, intimates that they both know the answer to that question, and that this answer is _a metric fuck-tonne of A Lot._

“Delayed gratification,” Beau says instead. She wipes a little of the cooling slick on Yasha’s belly, just to make her shiver. “Someone who threatened to edge me for three hours seemed to think it’d be fun. Unless you wanna wait until we hit the next town…”

That does it. Yasha rolls onto her back, fumbling for her belt, pulling half the blankets after her. Stupid, how Beau misses the warm weight of her leg as soon as it’s gone. “That wasn’t a _threat._ It was a promise.”

“One I really, really want you to make good on. But –“

Nott snorts in her sleep. Her long tongue snakes out, scraping over her sickle-sharp fangs. Her eyelids flutter - before she slackens and the snores restart.

Beau lowers her voice again. “But first…” A waggle of her eyebrows. “You have a _lovely_ long watch with Fjord.”

Yasha does bite her for that. In a fun, playful kinda way. As in, she doesn’t sever any major arteries.

She unpeels herself from the blanket, still shivering, and makes her wobbly way to her feet. As she turns to trudge after Fjord, Beau gives her a good view of her sucking her tang from her fingers, then collapses against her bundled coat to chase sleep.

The lump of antler gouges her hip. The imprint of Yasha's teeth throbs on her shoulder. When slumber swallows her, it’s black and untroubled, still as a glacial tarn. Like there’s an angel standing sentinel, guarding Beau against bad dreams.

* * *

The night passes without incident. Beau spends her watch with Caleb. They keep each other awake with quiet reminiscences of libraries they’ve visited, scholars they once knew. The wizard is still cagey, and Beau gets the sense he Insight Checks every other statement, but that makes it fun to spin him the most outlandish, ridiculous tales of her hijinks with the Cobalt Soul and watch his eyes narrow as he contemplates calling her out.

As they pile their camping gear onto the cart the next morning, Molly’s contribution involves hurling up his guts into a bush. Beau supposes it lightens their load. He moans when she levers him off the forest floor, pushing his muddy face against her shoulder. “You… might’ve been right… to besmirch my ‘shrooms.”

Beau pats his back – then dodges out of range, when his cheeks bulge. “Thanks for volunteering yourself as taste-tester before I ate the whole bunch.”

Molly gives a weak salute. Beau leaves him under Jester’s care, heading to tack up the horses with Fjord. She glances to the rear of their group, just once.

Yasha has abandoned her assigned task – heaving their packs onto the wagon – in favour of squatting beside a small, vibrant pink flower that Beau would have trodden over without a downwards glance. She pinches off its stem between black-painted nails, blows dew from its petals and sandwiches it flat between the pages of her book. Smiling, private and small.

_For someone special._

Those words niggle at Beau’s heart. She turns away, wrenching at Toilet’s bridle when the buckle sticks. The forest whispers and mutters around them, insipid morning light glossing the strange, jagged deer carvings on the trees.

* * *

Three nights pass before Yasha and Beau are left to guard the camp alone. Good timing, as it turns out. Earlier that day, the entire team stopped off at the base of a waterfall to bathe, scraping the accumulated grime of travel from their skin. They’ve washed down together often enough that it isn’t awkward, though Jester does her utmost to make it so by peeking at everyone, giggling, and making size comparisons between her fingers.

Fjord sinks to his chin like the clear pool will disguise his pine-green blush, while Caleb spells the water to a more flattering temperature and swims over to hide behind Yasha. Molly, of course, lolls over a rock, shameless as a cat. But – after drying their clothes and coaxing Nott to at least rinse her face and pongy pits – the team piles back aboard their wagon, smelling if not as fresh as a daisy, then at least unlikely to make passing travellers roll an immediate constitution saving throw.

As the day wanes, they bunk down in a hollowed grove. Birch trees form a palisade wall on every side, straight and tall. Their bark is bleached as dead things left out in the sun. A natural defence, Fjord says – though Beau can’t help but envision the bars of a cage.

Jester spends the evening sprawled belly-down on a blanket, doodling furiously in her sketchbook ( _have to get the details down before I forget, unless any of you want to live model…_ ). Nott roots out a rat’s nest from under one of the trees, to Yasha’s delight. Completely normal day.

Except for, y’know, how Beau keeps touching the antler pendant. Tapping her nails against it, scraping off little peels of velvet.

Ridiculous, really. Every time she checks the surrounding woodland, she finds only the dappled shift of sunlight. Auburn leaves, stirred by the wind. Yet she can’t shake this sense that something follows…

The others seem oblivious. Beau’s pride won’t let her speak up first, just in case this is all in her head. Spooking at her own shadow? She’d never live that down.

In the end, she keeps her mouth shut. Whatever’s out there is unlikely to attack. They trek through the outskirts of the forest, only a half day’s travel between them and the next portion of the King’s Road. The Nein have taken quite the shortcut, hiking over arboreous foothills, below the snow-capped peaks. Their cart holds up admirably, needing only minor repairs from a broken rivet. The horses snooze at the edge of the encampment, having woffled up every blade of grass in the vicinity, and everything is, at least on the surface, as it should be.

The same is true of any deep water source, though. No hint of the leviathans lurking below.

The _sensible_ thing would be to remain vigilant. For Beau to glare out into the forest all night, keeping herself sharp with pinches and jumping jacks, one-armed push-ups in the dirt. But all plans to that end disintegrate when Beau relieves Nott and Molly, clambering atop the cart. She finds Yasha nestled in her feathered shawl, doing that thing where she peeks at Beau from the corner of her eyes but pretends very hard not to.

Beau knows she won’t mention anything. Not unless Beau makes the first move. They could sit here the whole night, moon dripping silver down their necks, standing guard against that which prowls through the dark.

 _Orrrr._ Y’know. Beau could drop her hand on Yasha’s knee. And squeeze, just a bit.

Yasha jumps. “Hullooo!”

Too loud. They share a quick grimace, glancing back at the camp. No movement. At least, Beau doesn’t think so. Her vision’s wavery, dazzled by the fire. Even Yasha looks dulled. Shadows smooth her edges, her storm-scent muddled by woodsmoke.

“Hi,” says Beau, resettling on the seat. Usually, she’s got a mile-long list of sleazy one-liners. But her tongue tangles around Yasha, retreats down her throat like she’s trying to swallow it whole. “Nice, uh, night.”

“Very.”

“Pretty, y’know?”

“Mmhm. I… I like the…” Yasha waves vaguely for inspiration. “Stars?”

“Yup. Yeah, there’s plenty of ‘em.”

Beau can affix a name to each. The Cobalt Soul categorised everything, like they could govern nature by taking a million samples and storing them in alphabetically labelled jars. That urge – to _understand_ , to _discover –_ still twists inside her. If she sees something, she has to pick it apart to figure out how it works. But that curiosity was drummed into her _so_ intently, from the day good ol’ dad first sold her, she’s not sure how much is her own.

Not a thought she likes to dwell on. Beau sticks a mental label on each star anyway, and tells herself it’s out of curiosity, not compulsion.

“Do you know, like, all the constellations and shit?” she asks. “Ever learn about them in barbarian-school?”

Yasha tucks her cloak tighter around her. “We didn’t really have a, uh, formal education system.”

“Right, right. Too busy learning how to Rage.”

“And hunt, and forage, and build fires and prepare spiders so they don’t give you the shits…” Yasha shrugs. Her face is upturned, bathed in moonlight. She’s so pale she could have been carved from it. Each feature so delicate, so perfectly cut.

Sometimes, Beau forgets she’s part angel. But on nights like these, never for long.

Silence settles, black velvet. Beau’s about to break it when Yasha speaks again: “In the swamps that lead up towards the northern forests, it’s always night. But – clouds. So many clouds. And I – I like clouds.” She touches the Stormlord’s symbol, clipped to her cloak. “It’s just that I didn’t get to see the stars much, I suppose. Not… not as much as I would like. It's so overcast, and damp all the time. The air sometimes feels like it's rotting you from the inside.”

Lovely image. Beau whistles. “That’s more than you’ve said over the entire day.” 

She regrets it immediately. Arsehole thing to say, even if it's true. Fjord is snoring, starfished next to Caleb, but Beau swears his disappointment still swirls around her in a warlocky miasma. 

Yasha doesn't seem to mind. She tucks a snow-tipped curl behind her ear, smiling bright as the sparks spat from the fire. “Maybe I saved the words up. For, um, this.”

_For you._

Her knee’s so solid under Beau’s palm. She looks right at her, and her eyes are distinct even in this murky light: one polar blue, the other violet. Beau wants to murmur something stupid about how they’re more alluring than any Xhorhasian swamp, full of entire diverse _biodomes_ of beauty; and fuck, she’s never been much of a poet –

She yanks her hand back onto her own lap. “Constellations,” she says. Squeaks, really. Her tonsils scratch from the smoke. “Every society has its own myths about which stars belong together, and how they came to be.”

Yasha swallows. Her throat makes a dry click. She leans back, reinstating the distance between them – not that it slows the pummel of Beau’s heart. “Like what?”

“Like – the Empire weave these big adventures about gods waging war and hurling each other into the sky, right? But the mountain giants think stars are burning rocks, billions of miles away. Some civilisations even say they’re angels.”

“Mm. I don’t think I’m descended from burning rocks.”

“Well – right. It’s just a story. They’re all just stories. But, though it’s not sanctified by the temples or anything, some astronomers in the gnomish cities have actually started taking the mountain giants seriously. They think there might be something in that whole _burning rock_ shtick.”

Yasha nods along, though her brow creases. “If they are burning rocks, who threw them up there?”

“The gnomes haven’t figured that part out yet. Pick a god, any god. And…” Beau slumps, propping her chin on her hands. “Sorry. We’re finally alone, and I’m rambling on about stars. I just think it’s neat, is all.”

“No! Nononono! It’s – it’s very neat!” Another sideways glance from mismatched eyes. “And I think you’re. You’re. Um. Neat, too.”

Gah.

The silence grows again. Beau’s leg starts to jiggle. She crosses her other one over it.

“Soooo,” she says, rolling the word all the way along her tongue. “Did you want to fuck, or what?”

The tension saps from Yasha’s spine. “Oh, thank the Stormlord. I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

Beau does one last perimeter check before diverting her concentration to Yasha’s labyrinthine belts. She spies nothing but shadow. Tendrils of it, crawling around the edges of their camp, held at bay by the heavenward licks of their fire.

Beau touches the pendant. The antler is cold, though it’s been sucking up her body heat for the better half of a week. No animal cries tonight. The forest lies eerily still, barely disturbed by the trickle of a breeze.

Beau jumps at the brush of her arm. Yasha is watching her, concern crumpling her annoyingly symmetrical face. “Beau?”

“Sorry, sorry. Just, y’know. Making sure we don’t get sneak-attacked midway.” Is it too much to ask, just once, to get off without interruptions? The chilly wooden seat numbs Beau’s arse, so she hoists herself up and piles on Yasha’s lap instead. They fit together so easily, Beau’s legs around her waist. Like they were designed this way, side-by-side pieces in a jigsaw. Before Beau can berate herself for indulging such dumb, mushy thoughts, Yasha grasps her hips, pulls her closer.

“It’s, um, a very nice behind. Be a shame for any forest monster to bite it off.”

Gods, she’s ridiculous. In the best possible way. Beau buries her laugh in her neck. “Right? A world-class tragedy. Don’t worry, though.” She pulls down the furred collar of her coat, tilting her head so the firelight catches the cuts left by Yasha’s teeth. “Only one person has biting rights.”

“…I did that?”

“Fuck yeah, you did.” Beau totally doesn’t anything lame, like shiver, when Yasha strokes the crescent of scabs. “And I liked it, so don’t go, like, freaking out, or whatever.”

Her heart breaks into a gallop, speeding up the longer Yasha touches her neck. Her thoughts are a blizzard of eldritch bat-wings, strangling hands, sawblade snarls.

“I think,” says Yasha, soft as a confession, “I liked it, too.”

And – _oh_. There’s that lost hunger, from Fjord’s interruption and the bandits before him. It bursts inside Beau, a bubble of warmth. Yasha touches her mark with a gentleness that’s near reverential, though the look in her eyes is anything but holy.

Beau wets her lips. She leans so her breath tickles Yasha’s, too. “Wanna do it again?”

Yasha draws back. “I – I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Unless I ask you to. That’s what you told me, at the inn. No take-backsies.” Beau draws a deep breath, like she's meditating, or preparing for a dive. Then lifts Yasha’s hand, settling it around her throat. “Now I’m asking.”

Yasha doesn't pull away. Her hand remains exactly where Beau placed it. Warm, strong. Rough from her sword, Her forehead pinches like she’s thinking. Perhaps about how her eyes roll back whenever Beau pulls her hair, shoves her facedown on a bed, scrapes her bloody with her nails. Both of them are more than aware of how pleasure and pain intertwine. It's just that most nights, Beau prefers to do the hurting.

Beau waits her out. Hoping she’ll call a halt to this game. Praying, deep down, that she won’t.

She knows it’s stupid to reveal this want. Knows she’s opening a new wound for Yasha to salt when she next wanders off on an errand for the Stormlord and forgets to drop an ‘oh hi, I’m still alive’ message for the better part of a month. But Beau can’t deny this pathetic, clutching thing inside her, which would give anything, do anything, to make her stay. 

Because she likes her. As a friend. Sex-friend. Whatever.

“How will you tell me to stop?” Yasha asks, after indeterminable eons. Her touch isn't oppressive. Just _there;_ thumb stroking light at the hollow of Beau’s throat.

Beau’s entire being hones in on that pressure. She’s prickly all over, unsure if it’s arousal or embarrassment warming her face. “You think I'd want you to?”

“You think I'd want to start, without knowing you're safe?” The thumb circles her trachea. Beau’s breath catches, though Yasha has yet to squeeze. “You might not be able to talk. I need – we need – if it’s too much –“

Kinda stupid to talk _safety_ when she’s asking an Aasimir barbarian to erotically strangle her. “I’ll be fine. What, you think I’m fragile? Should I be offended? Because I feel kinda offended right now.”

“It’s – it’s not _fragility._ Just.” Yasha’s cool palm slides up to cup Beau’s cheek. Fuck Beau five ways to Friday, but she could fall forever through those blue-purple eyes. “You always stop, when I – when I say. When I need you to. I – I wouldn’t be able to live with myself, if – just – please, Beau. For me, if not yourself. _Please_.”

And – well. Beau’s always liked it, when she begs. “I could deck you?”

Yasha shrugs. “That’ll do.”

“Wait – seriously? I’m kidding. I don’t wanna hit you. I guess if I like, tug at your hand, that’s a tap-out? I’ll hold your shoulders, otherwise.” Beau’s wink contains infinitely more bravado than the rest of her. “Or your tits. Your choice.”

Yasha mulls it over. It takes a while for her to reach a decision. Beau’s knee starts to pang from where it’s pressed against the back of the wooden cart seat. A splinter pierces her trousers, scraping skin.

“You don’t have to do this,” she adds, in case it needs to be said aloud. “I know it’s a lot.”

“A lot of trust,” Yasha agrees. “You… Do you really think I’ve earned it?”

“Depends on whether you’re gone tomorrow.” It’s meant to sound flippant. It comes out anything but.

There’s a storm in Yasha’s eyes. “You can’t hold me down, Beauregard.”

“Don’t underestimate me. I just gotta find strong enough chains.”

Yasha’s supposed to smirk, flex a bit, suggest they try the blacksmith in the next town. Not go ice-still, eyes turning wounded. That's odd. But whatever old hurt hides there, Beau knows better than to poke it. When Yasha doesn’t match her grin, she lets it fade.

“I’m not trying to – I dunno, catch you, or whatever. Promise. You do your thing, I’ll do mine. Keeping it casual. We can meet in the middle, I guess.”

Yasha’s quiet for another long minute. “Catch me,” she repeats, studying the stars again. It sounds (just faintly) like a plea. “I might let you, one day. But –“

“Yeah, yeah. Weird God-shit to do, servant of the Stormlord. When he calls, you follow. I gotcha.”

 _One day._ Hardly a promise. It's a scrap of a _hint_ of a future between them. Definitely not the sort of heartfelt, lovelorn oath that inspires bards. Which is good, because lovelorn oaths ruin just-for-fun fuckery, and Beau's never been about commitment. If she latched onto that _one day_ and stashed it in her ventricles, like a squirrel storing up nuts for the winter, it would say a lot of very unflattering lame-ass stuff about her. And so, she doesn’t. She _resolutely_ does not. She doesn’t very, very hard.

Beau slaps on her usual grin. Her hands roam under Yasha’s feathered shawl, down to frame her bust (because _fuck,_ that grey corset-top does _infernal_ things to her cleavage). “Right. We gonna finish this before our watch is up?”

“One tap and I stop,” Yasha reminds her. Then she rearranges them, picking Beau up and perching her on one of her muscular thighs.

Better angle, this. Yasha can press the small of her back, encourage her to grind.

That's how it starts. Slow, firm. They rut together. Never quite parting, never quite pausing, leather chewing skin.

It’s good. Damn good. Just the edge of roughness Beau needs. Or perhaps she's just high on the anticipation – because everything gets infinitely, _indescribably_ better when Yasha closes her hand on Beau’s throat.

Beau gulps. Just once.

Then she can’t anymore.

Yasha might say something else. A murmur of encouragement, another reminder of how Beau can bring this to an end. Or perhaps Beau just hears a nocturnal hunter, far away, springing on its unsuspecting prey. Whatever the distant noise, it’s lost as she is.

Warmth fizzles beneath her skin. It reminds Beau of that softening tingle that runs through your body before sleep. She rolls against Yasha, motions her own yet somehow not. Hips rocking, moved to a rhythm beyond her control.

All she knows is the clench and twist of it. The way Yasha squeezes tight enough to choke her, then relents, letting her snatch heady huffs of air.

Her other hand grips Beau’s waist when her pace stutters. Moving her faster, gyrating her tight against her leg. Every cant of her hips is rewarded with an upwards press. She plays Beau’s body, easing her up an arpeggio of pleasure, until it feels like if she opened her mouth, Celestial would fall out.

Beau restrains herself to wheezes, broken gasps. She kneads the feathered ruff on Yasha’s cloak like Frumpkin when he’s making biscuits.

Fuck, _yes._ More; please, more.

Yasha’s hand is so warm, so strong. Bending Beau, where it could break.

It helps, perhaps, to be with someone who’s killed before. Yasha watches her with a hunter's eyes. She knows _just_ how long to keep Beau pinched off and airless, before letting it back in a euphoric rush. Beau doesn’t know if this quivery pulse inside her is from knowing she’s at the mercy of such a powerful being, or knowing that same powerful being will back off and let Beau fuck her just as thoroughly the moment she gives the word.

Both, most likely. All that, and more.

Hotter now, more frenzied. Beau bucks against Yasha, eyes slipping back into her head. Blackness tickles the edge of her vision. She loses everything – her name, her past, each and every story of how the stars came to be. Nothing left but the stars themselves. Those glitter on the backs of her eyelids, brighter than their fire.

Yasha cuts off her air, one last time. Then ducks forward, nosing Beau’s coat aside, to fasten her teeth over that same ring of bite marks. Renewing her sharp, stabbing claim.

Beau yips like she’s touched lightning. She humps Yasha’s leg like she’s trying to snap her femur and shatters with a soundless sob.

* * *

When her head clears, she’s warm. Too warm, really, but so comfortable it doesn’t matter. Sticky in her clothes, from sweat and more besides.

Heat engulfs her like one of Caleb’s flame spells. She’d try and roll away from it, only someone – _rude –_ has gone and poured molten lead into her limbs.

For now, she relaxes. Everything's smooth and sated, butter soft. Arms surround her, so pale they look like they’d burn after a minute in direct sunlight. Buff, beautiful arms, which can lift Beau as easily as a six-foot greatsword.

Beau nuzzles the nearest. Then nips it, just because she can.

Yasha jumps. “You’re awake!”

“Don’t think I was sleeping. Just…” Beau stretches, relishing the tingle in each sinew. She burns all over, in a good way. Like after an amazing work out, when you can fall into a hot bath and let your worries drift away.

“Floating,” says Yasha, soft. She’s shifted them horizontal on the bench, Beau piled on top of her, both wrapped snug-to-suffocating in her cloak. Beau’s gonna need to sit before she expires of heatstroke, but that can wait. She’s got HP to spare. For now, she folds her arms over Yasha’s chest and props her chin on top, smiling sleepily down at her.

Something about the way she says that – _floating –_ suggests she knows exactly where Beau’s mind is right now. Was this what she felt, when Beau teased her to a trembly mess a few nights back? If so, Beau feels just the tiniest bit bad that she didn’t hold her after. Because this – the closeness, the calmness of it – is _unspeakably_ awesome. Beau might just melt over her barbarian and let her stroke her back until sunrise.

So she thinks, anyway. Until seven-charisma Yasha, The Charm, pats her head and says, “Good girl.”

Beau blinks at her.

Yasha blinks back. “Is that not…? Sorry. Just. It feels nice. When you, uh, say it to me. Um. You… slut?”

Beau’s sputtery laugh is disguised only by the pop of a log in the fire. “Oh, god.”

“What? What!”

“Nothing. You’re amazing. Just – please, never attempt dirty-talk again.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” says Yasha, and never have those words been imbued with such massive relief.

Minutes pass, languid and smoky. Beau sinks back into her head. She stretches again before crawling up Yasha’s body to kiss her.

The cloak slips from her stinging shoulders. Everything’s fuzzy and perfect, from the way Yasha yields so easily, letting Beau grab a fistful of her hair and drag her head to where she wants it; to the aftershocks still fluttering behind Beau’s navel. The tipped hourglass propped at the corner of the cart is almost empty. One more flip of the sands before they wake Molly and Nott. More than enough time for Beau to show Yasha she can hold her when she’s floating, too.

“Okay,” she repeats, straddling Yasha’s waist. “So, let’s just say, for science – do you have a strong opinion about getting fist-fucked over the seat while I eat your arse, or –"

She cuts herself off. Words dying on her lips.

“There’s an ‘or’?” asks Yasha, faintly. Then, when Beau doesn’t respond – “I mean, I haven’t really – not before – with my, um, arse -"

“There’s a deer,” says Beau.

“I – I think I’d like to try? Maybe? But –“

“It’s smiling at us,” says Beau.

Why the _fuck_ is the deer smiling? Beau might not be a trained nature specialist. But deer don’t, according to her general knowledge of Cervidae, do that.

Yasha shifts beneath her, easing up onto her elbows. She twists to look over her shoulder – then stiffens, stares. “Beau, there’s a deer.”

“I fucking _know._ ”

Just… standing there. At the edge of the camp, staring straight at Beau. Its animal gaze is liquid black, firelight glistening off its eyes. But its mouth… That looks all too human. Like at any moment, the creature might swing up onto its hindlegs, stand bipedal.

Beau flaps her hand at it. “Shoo. _Shoo._ ” The deer doesn’t budge. The lump of the antler seeps cold into her leg. “Fuck. I don’t like this.”

Yasha reaches for her zweihander, propped against the wheel of the cart. “It’s diseased. We should kill it, put it out of its misery.”

“Yasha, I don’t think that’s a deer.”

“But you said –“

“Look at it.” The longer Beau sinks into the depths of the creature’s eyes, the less recognisable it seems. Like her concentration is dissipating an illusion, peeling off the familiar, unfamiliar skin. “There’s something _wrong_ here.”

Yasha peers. “It’s not… _not_ a deer.”

“Which really doesn’t make me feel any better.” Because it might’ve been a deer once. But Beau knows, with viscera-twisting certainty, _it isn’t a deer anymore_.

Yasha’s grip on her sword tightens. Beau knows from the tension across her back that she’s noticed it: that uncanny, awful curve of a grin.

“Who are you?” Yasha calls.

Her voice – raised, for the first time since their watch began – startles Caleb out of sleep. Beau cracks her gaze away from the deer. It’s difficult. Those wet black pools are tar pits, sucking her in. Still, she turns; catches the wizard’s movement. Motions him to silence. Widogast’s sharp enough, even freshly roused, to follow her command. When Nott jerks awake he fastens his hand over her mouth, hissing at the instinctual bite.

The deer makes no reply.

The rest of the Nein shake off slumber, one by one. The deer doesn’t look at them. It doesn’t move at all. Nor does it make any attempt to answer Yasha’s address. Just keeps staring.

Directly at Beau.

Beau swallows. The smoke infests her throat like she’s caught a winter cold. Between that and the lingering tightness from Yasha’s stranglehold, the walls of her oesophagus rub like sandpaper. She dips into her pocket, stroking the antler’s velvety edge.

She might as well have tossed a shuriken into its face. The doe lurches, shuddering neck to tail. Its horrible mouth opens in an all-too-human scream.

Then keeps opening.

And opening, and _opening,_ dropping all the way down the length of its neck, and –

_shit –_

It charges.

* * *

Takes a while for Yasha to react. Chronically shit Initiative rolls, and all.

Beau doesn’t wait. She vaults the side of the cart, grabbing her staff. She rams one end into the ground. Momentum spins her around it. Her boot sails forth on a direct collision course with the doe’s gaping, freaky jaw –

_Thwack._

Direct hit. Its head cracks to the side. Then – _pop-pop-pop –_ snaps back into place like all the vertebrae have realigned.

The scream continues, scratching Beau’s eardrums. The not-deer lunges for her leg. She knows – just _knows –_ that if any limb sinks into the void of its open throat, she won’t ever get it back.

Beau yanks away. Falls, lands cocked. She waves her arms for balance, channelling an adolescence spent balancing atop bo staffs in the dojo. But her heel skids on the mush of leaves and assorted forest goop.

Over she goes. The not-deer looms above, and –

“Fuck off, creepy forest-thing! You’ve messed with the Mighty Nein!”

Two crossbow bolts sprout from its back _._ The deer twists, still screeching. Black filaments furl from in its throat, like tentacles are pulling it apart from the inside. Necrotic energy roils between its huge, dislocated jaws. It builds and builds, then –

_phweeee –_

rockets out. Directly at Nott.

One Uncanny Dodge later, the blast dissipates against a birch tree, rotting its trunk to black slime. A shearing groan. The canopy lists, plowing into the boughs beside. Cracks, creaks. Damp twigs confetti down from above, peppering their camp, hissing and popping on the fire.

“What _is_ that?” wails Caleb. He thrusts his giant Cat’s Paw upwards, holding the trees in place.

“I have no i-deer!” calls Jester. She summons her spiritual weapon as Beau groans in her general direction.

“I just took ten points psychic damage.”

Jester cackles in reply. She takes a swing with the giant lollipop. Misses.

Molly’s up next. He runs at Fjord with no word of a warning, leaping onto his back. He uses him as a launchpad for his flip, drawing both scimitars in synchrony, activating them with dark streaks of blood.

Slash, slash. The not-deer withdraws, screeching. As Fjord attempts an Eldritch Blast – fizzling out before it reaches halfway; must still be waking up – the freaky nightmare creature realises Beau’s still in closest proximity.

It spins on her, hooves skittering unnaturally over the forest floor. Beau scrabbles backwards. She grasps a handful of wet leaves; flings them in the creature’s face. Doesn’t even slow it down. It lunges, and –

 _Shhhnk._ A greatsword cleaves its body from behind. Parting the wet, glistening meat.

Blood fountains over Beau’s chest, black and viscous and –

_Shit._

Starting to _burn._

She _writhes_. Its evil essence gobbles straight through her leathers and into her skin, even as the not-deer's corpse slumps to either side. Smoke curls, stinking of necrosis and chemical wrongness, and Beau’s eyes pinch shut from the pain.

Not fast enough. She still sees Yasha.

The greatsword _thunks_ the ground by Beau’s head. Yasha collapses against it, legs wobbling from under her. She _screams_ as the acid digests the left half of her face, and _fuck,_ there’s another deer creature sprinting from the woods behind, unholy mouth opened like it intends to swallow her whole and –

Beau staggers to her feet. Adrenaline punches her system, overriding the pain. She feeds the not-deer two shuriken instead. It catches both, mouth a chasm darker than a starless night sky. The throwing stars vanish without a trace.

The creature doesn’t slow. Not for Nott’s failed attempt to gut it on her short-sword, nor Caleb’s gust of fire. Still smoldering, it charges Beau and Yasha down, until –

 _Wham._ A giant swirly sucker bats it back towards their camp, where it lands – _shhnk –_ on Fjord’s drawn falchion.

“Mind the blood!” calls Beau, as the beast shrieks higher than a whistling kettle and thrashes its death throes.

“Oh, shit!” Too late. Fjord found out the hard way.

Vicious Mockery rends the air around them. Molly backs up to flank Caleb, fighting a third deer, eyeing the overhead trees.

Whatever poison they contain, it’s nasty. Skin sloughs from Beau’s torso like she’s a shedding snake. She can smell her own blood, foul and corrupted. Its copper stench reaches up her nostrils and sticks fingers down her throat.

Beau backs up, panting, to guard Yasha’s six, staff at the ready. “You good?”

The barbarian heaves herself to her feet. She breathes in tattered wheezes. Idiot must’ve dived to Beau's rescue without Raging. She landed the Critical on that first not-deer, but took the full brunt of its dying attack. Beau chances a glance over her shoulder and – ew. Yasha’s face isn’t so gorgeous when it’s hanging half-off. Beau can’t tell if she’s grinning because she’s in her element, or because her cheeks have kinda melted.

“I would like to Rage,” she says in answer, more guttural with every word. Then hefts the Magician’s Judge up one-handed and rampages into the rest of the herd as they converge from the surrounding forest, a sea of yawning mouths and reflective, unblinking black eyes. Her bellow startles birds from their roosts for miles around.

“That’s my girl,” says Beau, proudly, to anyone listening. Then she dashes after her, parkouring off two trees for an aerial advantage.

* * *

They’re halfway through the herd, Fjord unconscious and Yasha nearing it, by the time Beau remembers the antler. It’s a long shot, but she tosses it to Caleb as he dispels the Cat’s Paw and brings his captive tree down on three not-deer, crushing rotten black organs from their dislocated mouths.

“Recognise this, Widogast?”

And Caleb (Arcana check: Nat 20) does.

“It’s a protective charm!” he yells back, incinerating another of the creatures that’s been weakened by Molly’s Vicious Mockery. They’re trying to clear a path between Jester and Fjord. The half-orc has fallen by the fire. Black blood peels him like one of those citrus fruits they grow on the Menagerie Coast. Beau grabs Yasha’s arm before she can sway off her feet. Everything is pain. The same demonic essence dissolves the bandages wrapped around her palms.

“It’s doing a shit job of it!”

“No – see – this charm, it all makes sense now! These creatures; I have read of them before, though I had never seen a picture! Forest guardians; entities of the night! Their chosen few offer monthly sacrifice in exchange for protection. To cut short a lot of mystical babble, any who should hunt them will –“

“Be hunted in return.” Beau doesn’t need photographic recall of every book in the Cobalt Soul's vast libraries to put that much together. The strange sense of being stalked, the screams in the night, herding them deeper into the forest… How long have these creatures waited for them to drop their guard? “Fuck. So in order to stop this, we’d need to return the charm to the bandit we stole it from? Because he’s under the forest’s protection?”

“Something along those lines!”

“And how do you propose we go about that? We don’t have the first clue where he is!”

“Perhaps you should’ve thought of that before you stole it!” screeches Nott, which is really fucking big coming from her.

“That’s really fucking big, coming from you!”

“Was that a size joke or just general snark?” When Beau’s next wild swing misses, Nott shoots her attacker before her arm can plunge into its bottomless maw. “Either way, so not the time!”

“We have to do something!” That’s Jester, whapping deer after deer back into the trees with her lollipop. “They just keep coming!”

“Toss it away!” Beau calls to Caleb. “If it’s the pendant they’re after, let them have it!”

“Or,” says Yasha, wiping what looks like bits of chin _from_ her chin (ew-ew-ew; Beau so can’t look at her right now) “we kill them all and fight our way out.”

She doesn’t give them a chance to discuss it. Doesn’t even wait for Caleb to lob the antler piece into the trees (which does, for the record, a solid amount of fuck-all). Just shakes Beau off her and casts Healing Hands on herself. Sealing up the gaping, smoking gashes in her face, just enough that she doesn’t bleed out.

The air around her hums with energy, like they're at the apex of an oncoming lightning strike. Black, tattered wings lift from her back. She carves a steel slice into the throng of undead not-deer, her passage heralded by demonic shrieks.

Full-on fucking _tanking_ it. Opening their route to the forest’s edge.

Beau heaves a sigh. She cracks out her back, raises her staff on the offensive, and sprints after her.

“What about the horses?” Molly yells, as Jester – judging by the curses – foregoes feeding Fjord a potion in favour of tossing him bodily over her shoulders. “The cart?”

“We go now!” Beau bellows back to him. She dashes through the trees, after Yasha’s vanguard. Action, bonus action, _pop-pop._ Deer burst on every side. “Or we don’t go at all!”

The sharp snap of boots over twigs. Black wings in front. The clatter of unearthly hooves behind.

The Mighty Nein abandon their steeds, their supplies and the golden warmth of their fire. They run – run for their lives – into the abyssal dark.

* * *

“So,” says Fjord the next morning. He winces as he flexes his scorched hand into and out of a fist. The Nein pick their way through the twisted trunks, none of which seem quite as dense nor as clawing as when you're racing between them past midnight, pursued by a slathering pack of undead deer. “What have we learned?”

A small stag effigy swings from an overhanging bough. Beau pulls it down and stomps on it. Tempting fate, she knows, but fate can go fuck itself. “What’re you talking about?”

“The horses are alive!” Molly's exclamation floats back from the desecrated campsite. Beau supposes it shouldn’t come as much of a shock. Not like Crapper and Co. were complicit in their bandit-bashing. The deer must’ve left them be.

Fjord elbows Beau, as Jester whoops and dashes over to inspect them. “Don’t play coy. Doesn’t suit you.”

“Everything suits me. Seriously; name a look, I can pull it off. Is that the lesson?” Beau gestures down at herself. Her shirt having dissolved beyond all repair – it had melted _into_ her skin, in several places; which is just as gross as it sounds – she’s wrapped Yasha’s cloak around herself to preserve whatever remains of her modesty. Not like the barbarian needs it. “I really rock post-apocalyptic warzone style?”

Fjord rubs his forehead. “No. No, the lesson is, _don’t fuck on watch,_ because no way did an entire _herd_ of those things creep up on us without giving off _some_ sort of warning –“

“It was dark! They were on their favoured terrain!”

“And what’s your favoured terrain?” Nott mutters, kicking stones off the path. “The fish market?”

Overhead, a pigeon coos. Beau rolls her eyes to the sky, past the autumn-thinned canopy, and heaves a heartfelt groan.

* * *

They lead the horses back to the village. The contents of their cart have obviously been rifled. Beau imagines the bandits sloping through the dark, timing a strike to their screams. She should’ve killed the lot of them when she had the chance. But it's not like the Nein keep their coin purses in their luggage. All they’ve lost are spare clothes and food.

Normally, Beau would hunt down the thieves – heaven forbid they get away with this, think they’ve won. But right now, she has somewhere else she needs to be.

A small village rests at the foot of the forest. It’s inhabited by shifty-eyed locals who mistrust the woodlands and anyone who tumbles out of it. They all fell silent when the Nein dragged their largest member into the tavern and demanded a room.

Yasha’s still laid up. A long rest should boost Jester’s healing potion - and hopefully, rebuild her facial structure. It’d be real nice if there’s something for Beau to kiss, once she comes home.

Or, y’know. Not _home._

Home isn’t an inn in some armpit village at the edge of a demon-deer infested wood. Home isn’t anywhere. But if Beau had to choose a place, anywhere in the whole wide world… It’d be aboard the Nein's rickety cart, packed in between her friends, on their way towards another adventure. Starry skies above. No storm clouds to steal her barbarian away.

Yasha’s asleep when Beau tiptoes in. Jester has already breezed through, checked her condition, and assured everyone she’s just resting the poison off. Still, Yasha looks far from her best. The kohl beneath her eyes has sweated away. That or it melted, along with the rest of her skin. The regrown flesh is bruise-purple, hollowing out Yasha’s eye sockets like she’s a skull.

Her pallidity doesn’t help the comparison. Beau has to cup her cheek to assure herself she’s only white as a corpse, not as cold.

Yasha twists into her touch. Her brows crunch, mouth twisting down. Scowling, even in her sleep.

Beau huffs a laugh. Right. Not a morning person.

And – well. Yasha _did_ give permission for Beau to attempt an… _alternate_ means of waking her up.

Beau grins. She turns the lock on the door. Then lifts one corner of the sheet to slither on in.

Yasha’s bare beneath. Getting slathered head-to-toe in corrosive goo seriously reduces the longevity of your outfit, and isn't included on any leathermaker’s warranty. They'll have to buy her new clothes - tough in a town like this, especially for someone her size. But right now, the practicalities of life on the road are far from Beau's mind. And - well, call her biased, but she'd be more than happy if Yasha wandered around naked.

She curls over her, head resting on her left breast. Rising and falling with every breath. Sharing heat. Listening to the steady double-thump within.

But Beau's never been a big fan of silence.

She kisses her, mouthing soft skin. Licking her nipples to shell-pink peaks. When she glances up, that same colour tints Yasha’s cheeks, the lines on her forehead smoothed over.

Perfect.

It’s deliciously easy to part her legs and slide between. Beau thanks all her rigorous monkly training for letting her ease down without eking a squeak from the mattress springs. Still, a part of her expects black wings to shoot out, a hand to clamp on her throat. Hell, she’s half-tempted to pinch Yasha awake just to experience it again: that euphoric edge of _danger._ But – what was it, Yasha said?

_One tap, and I stop._

_I couldn’t live with myself if –_

Big marshmallow _idiot._ Beau knows, deep down, that as fun as she might find the thought of Yasha letting loose on her, it’s not something she’ll ever risk. Not for her own safety. Not because Yasha would blame her, if it went badly. But because she’d only blame herself. And Beau couldn’t live with _herself,_ for that.

Thankfully, this method is just as rewarding.

Beau smirks up into Yasha’s sleeping face. She lets the sheet drop over her head. Then kisses her, again and again, all the way down.

Yasha mumbles something. _Zoopla?_ Beau doesn’t quite hear. Xhorhasian dialect, most likely. Her fists clench the bedsheets as Beau opens her with one long, velvety lick. She hesitates a moment, wondering if she'll wake - but Yasha sighs at the next cream-soft kiss, limpening, like she knows she’s safe.

That though makes Beau flush warmer than anything they've done together so far, up to and including Yasha's hand on her throat. She shuffles back, admiring the spit sheen on her silky folds. Then ducks again, lapping slow and sweet. It’s a gentleness she’s unaccustomed to giving – yet it seems unspeakably _right,_ as the morning light pours through the sheet over her head, shadows painting Yasha’s body like clouds rolling over the Wildemount hills.

Beau wants this. To look after her. To deconstruct her, take her apart, but only so Beau can put her back together again.

Minutes trickle past. Measured in snatches of breath, the slick work of Beau’s tongue. That’s obscenely loud against the soundscape: the faraway bustle of the morning market, the fly bonking the windowpane, Yasha’s hitching breath. Beau _thrives_ on it. The lewd squelch; the evidence of how much Yasha wants her. Thick on her breath, smearing her chin.

Not long before Yasha starts shifting into Beau’s ministrations. Squirming as Beau drags the flat of her tongue over her clit, like she can make the contact last. Beau shuts her eyes, sucks her in. She traces that hard pink nubbin with her tongue tip, then the sensitive, trembling opening below. Dips in, just a little, to taste.

She follows that same pattern, over and over. Until Yasha’s _moaning_ , more uninhibited than she ever is awake. Clenching and trembling and rocking against Beau’s face. The wet _shllk, shllk, shllk_ matches the rising crescendo of Beau’s pulse. She slips out and in, and out again, leaving Yasha convulsing, _dripping,_ hips pressed up from the mattress, spine a taut arc of need –

And a hand fastens in Beau’s hair. Digging needle-point pain into her scalp.

“ _Stormlord –_ “

Beau kisses her thigh. “Usually go by Beau,” she mumbles. Then she fastens her mouth on Yasha’s twitching clit, licking light and relentless until she _writhes_. Until she unravels, shuddering open for Beau, slick and whimpering.

They stay there another long moment. Beau lazily flicks her tongue against Yasha twice more, just to make her legs jerk. Then the cover flips back and brightness spills in.

Beau worms up. She rests her damp cheek on Yasha’s stomach, grinning up at her wide-eyed face.

“Beau?”

Beau shoots her dual-wielded finger guns. “Excellent plan. No wings, no ruined hotel beds. Think we’re really onto something, here.”

“I – yes? Good morning?”

“Morning.” Beau yawns, working the faint ache from her jaw. “ _Definitely_ a good one. Though we should get up soon, if we want there to be anything left for breakfast.”

“Mm,” says Yasha. She sags back onto the pillow, making absolutely no move to do so.

“I mean, that’s just a suggestion. Do feel free to fall asleep again. Wouldn’t mind a repeat. And – bonus, if I do this twice a day, I might not talk as much! So really, you'd be doing the rest of the Nein a favour –“

Yasha grabs her by her bitten shoulder. She heaves her up high enough to kiss, before any more nonsense can spill out.

“I’d miss it,” she mumbles once they part, both panting, her forehead resting against Beau’s. “If you didn’t talk.”

“You’re such an awful liar.”

“Which is why you know when I’m telling the truth.”

Beau looks at her, point blank. Her clothed body lies flush to Yasha’s bare one, though the layers between them feel somehow thinner than skin. She finds, for once, that she has no counterargument.

* * *

Molly drops by an hour later. He comes bearing gifts: a pitcher of water and a handful of wildflowers that he places in the dusty vase on the bedside table. He drops a kiss on Yasha’s temple, stroking back her hair.

“See you at lunch, darling,” is all he says.

Beau receives a brow raise and a smirk. She returns both with gusto.

The flowers are a motley assortment. Molly must’ve gone hunting; not many spread their petals at this time of year. Beau counts marigolds, dahlias, a crocus most likely nicked from somebody’s garden, and three sprigs of lavender the exact hue of Yasha’s left eye.

“You said they’re for someone special,” she says, as Yasha wraps the sheet around her and rolls out of bed, rummaging through the tatters of her old clothes for that leatherbound book.

“They are,” is her thoroughly illuminating contribution to the conversation.

Right. Because now Beau’s tongue isn’t buried in her favourite part of Yasha’s anatomy, that’s all she gets.

Beau snorts. She rolls away, facing the window and the new day outside. Dew beads on cobwebs, inside and outside alike. Each droplet glimmers, diamond-brilliant, a poor man’s chandelier. She counts three webs, roughly hexagonal, linked by tensile silver strands. Their architect is nowhere to be seen. Probably sensed Yasha’s presence and made itself scarce before she gets peckish.

Very wise, that. Far wiser than Beau, who has the distinct sense of floundering too deep in a web to ever rip free.

She doesn’t expect the touch at her cheek. Much less for Yasha to turn her chin, or to find her smiling.

The barbarian takes a lavender sprig. Rather than flattening it between the pages, she tucks it behind Beau’s ear. The purple bud rests on the gold bar punched through Beau’s helix.

Yasha doesn’t say _you’re special, too._ But then again, as she strokes Beau’s cheek, she doesn’t really need to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can be bribed to write more smut with nice comments!! And with Top!Dom!Beau / Sub!Bottom!Yasha fic reccs!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter - Strap-ons! Stormlords!!!! Smut and feelings!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Molly dies.

Yasha runs.

This time, Beau doesn’t hold on. She knows, she knows, she has to let her go.

Here are the things that haunt her in the night:

  * The _shkkkrk_ of a glaive shearing flesh and bone, pinning a lavender tiefling to the blackening earth.
  * The hot stink of his blood, metal-tainted magic.
  * Finding the final member of the Nein bound by wrists and neck, silent on the floor of her cage (because for all of a gut-wrenching second, Beau thought Yasha was dead, too).



Memories encircle Beau, tight as her new tattoo. Molly hunts her through her nightmares, hissing blame with a forked devil-tongue. He shared his mushrooms with her, as easily as his warmth when they were on watch. It makes it harder to numb herself with booze or drugs. She has to turn to meditation instead. When she finds time to sit by herself, hone her perception, focus on the world around her and her place within it, she’s mad that it actually helps.

However, there’s one sight no amount of meditation will banish from Beau’s mind. The expression on Yasha’s face when she asked after Molly. When she realised he was gone. Disbelief, ceding to horror, to desperation, to blank acceptance. Yasha collapsed at the grave marker, bowed before Molly’s bloodstained coat like a supplicant at prayer.

 _“It happened again,”_ she said, in a voice smaller and more trembly than anything Beau had wrung from her.

Then a storm broiled up, gobbling the horizon.

And Yasha walked away.

She promised she’d return. Beau doesn’t believe her. What’s left for Yasha with the Nein? Not even Beau’s ego (hardened over the years, showing no outward cracks) can convince her Yasha would stay on her behalf. The Nein call themselves heroes. But they failed to protect Yasha’s best friend, her _family,_ while she was being tortured by a slaver. It’s no exaggeration to say Beau never expects to see her again.

So, Beau does what she always does, when she leaves a chapter of her life behind.

She closes the book.

She forgets: pressed flowers and shy smiles, the sharp scent of ozone that clings to white-dipped hair. Broken wings and odd eyes and the way Yasha whimpers when Beau opens her on her tongue. How they fought the monsters of the world, back-to-back and side-by-side. Squashing all these memories and more. Flattening them between the pages of her mind, leaving them to dry.

For the most part, she manages. Beau is nothing if not experienced at turning her back on the past.

Keg is there, and Keg is aroused, and Keg would, Beau is sure, be amenable to letting her shut her eyes and pretend. But she keeps them open, albeit half-lidded with pleasure. Keg is a little too loud, a little too demonstrative. She tastes of nicotine, not lightning sparks. Once Beau’s fingerbanged her into a sweaty heap, she doesn’t stare glass-eyed at the ceiling like Beau’s disintegrated her entire world. Just hauls Beau up her chunky dwarven body to sit on her grinning face.

Not that, y’know, Beau’s complaining. Even if that five o’clock shadow scratches.

Point is, she’s doing a fucking _stellar_ job at moving on. Which is why, when she steps onto the wooden jetty at Nicodramus and sees a familiar broad back cloaked in a swirl of black-to-white hair, she’s half-tempted to march right back onto the shore. The _other_ half insists she should run to Yasha, fling her arms around her waist, mutter a thousand useless apologies for everything beyond her control, and fuck her against the nearest vaguely horizontal surface. Possibly all four at once.

In the end, Beau does sod-all. As her mind wages civil war, Jester whoops and rushes past. Yasha turns in time to receive an armful of blue tiefling.

“Yasha! You found us! When did you get back?”

Yasha blinks. It’s her, it’s really her: from the lag when responding to conversation to the black tattooed line on her chin. Beau’s legs are pillars of stone. “I’ve been in town a few days –“

Nott gasps in offence. “You were here this entire time and you didn’t come say hi?”

“I’m here, now?”

“Yes, but where have you _been?_ ”

“…Places.”

“But – _where –_ “

“Excuse Nott,” says Caleb, dropping his hand on the goblin’s shoulder. He smiles at Yasha. His warmth is that of the hearth in winter, gathering family home. “We are grateful to have you back.”

“We missed you _so much,_ ” Jester adds, still koalaed around Yasha’s waist. When it becomes clear she has zero intention of budging, Yasha plods towards them, tiefling attached.

She looks, Beau thinks, thinner. It doesn’t suit her. Cheekbones too pronounced, shoulders stooped, skin tight on her bones.

Unsurprising, really. Yasha’s hard as boat nails, forged of storms and steel. But after losing Molly… Beau can’t imagine walking alone on the roads of the Empire with grief her only companion. Even if –

_it happened again_

Even if Yasha’s done so before.

“Fights haven’t been the same without you,” says Fjord. He clasps Yasha’s shoulder as she steps into their huddle. She jolts at the contact. How long has it been, Beau wonders, since she was touched in any way but an attack?

Only Caduceus hesitates. He stays beside Beau, hairy ears twitching in the salt-sharp coastal breeze. “Hello, Miss Yasha,” he says, with a waggle of his bony fingers. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Yasha narrows her eyes at him. “And I’ve heard nothing about you.”

Caduceus isn’t the sort to take offence. He heads over to make his introduction, leaving Beau on the jetty’s edge, head spinning. She stares out across the lapping water like she’s been dazzled by the sun.

Once the rest of the Nein have worked through the obligatory interrogations (“ _But where did you go? Why did the Stormlord want you this time? What does he make you do?_ ”) Yasha looks to Beau. The others step away as she approaches, Caleb tugging Caduceus along by one elbow. Fjord rustles up a blatant lie about mermaids living on the far side of the harbour to distract Jester and Nott, giving them a little space.

Beau should be grateful. But all the space in the world wouldn’t change this feeling: like her lungs have shrunk to walnuts, crushed by the pressure in her chest.

“You came back,” she manages.

Yasha gazes out at the horizon. Dark clouds gather, bulging cumuli. Black anvils birthed by the sky. There’s a storm brewing. Because _of-fucking-course_. “I promised.”

“To stay?”

“For now.”

Her voice is distant, like there’s an ocean between them. But Beau’s been shaving off scraps of affection and sucking on them for sustenance since she was in diapers. It’s lame and pathetic and probably something she should like, _work on_ ; but she sure ain’t stopping now.

“Cool,” she tells Yasha, teeth clenched in what might (very generously) be called a smile. Because Molly meant more to Yasha than anyone, and Beau’s trying to get better at this _sensitivity_ shit. And they were never more than sex friends (fuckbuddies?) after all. “Cool, cool-cool-cool. Glad you found us again.”

Yasha just nods and turns back to her storm.

* * *

They sail the next morning in LePaul’s stolen ship. Early, with the tide, hoping to stay ahead of the roiling cloudbank. The Nein – first adventurers, now crewmates – venture across an untamed sea, in search of the temple of Uk’otoa ( _Uk’otoa, Uk’otoa_ ). It’s quite the quest to be thrown into, headfirst. But Yasha doesn’t quiz Fjord about his divine destination. She has enough experience, Beau figures, with Weird Godly Bullshit.

Still, there’s a… distance to her, as they all sweat at the rigging, bringing them back to Nicodramus. Fjord teaches them to hoist sails and tie off the belaying pins. The Nein promptly tear their jib, concuss Nott with a falling batten, and somehow tie Caleb to the backstay. Yasha doesn’t laugh, or even smile. She just keeps working, wherever Fjord directs her, with that same blank expression. Like her body’s here, but her mind got dropped miles back, forgotten on the side of the road.

Beau yearns to fix this. She can’t help it. She’s the sort of person who loses sleep over maths problems. It’s in her nature to unpick every tangle until the world lies smooth.

But there’s no easy solution, here. Her favoured one (namely: applying multiple orgasms) is obsolete. Grief can’t be fucked out of someone. If Yasha wants to _try,_ Beau’s game – but if the barbarian wants to pretend Beau never made her squirt like a geyser, that’s fine, too.

Whatever they had, it’s over. Or at least, on indefinite hiatus. And Beau, being an empathetic, understanding soul, is totally, 100% okay with that.

She’s totally, 100% okay with it, all the way through taking the _Mistake,_ meeting Avantika, trekking out to Urukayxl. The Nein chase ancient legends across the Lucidian ocean, over swells and doldrums, out to the furthest reaches of any map. Beau's okay with everything - right up until they push off from the Bisaft docks in the _Ball Eater._

And the storm catches up.

* * *

Thunder: booming.

Waves: crashing.

Lightning cracks the sky, revealing the bright-lit heavens behind.

It’s magnificent.

It’s awesome.

It’s fucking terrifying, and Beau wishes she gave more of a damn about Ioun, because she would very much like to pray for her life.

Spray whips the deck. The waves churn in synchrony with Beau’s guts, tossing the _Ball Eater_ from port to starboard, aft to stern. The ocean is a gnashing thing, the troughs between waves like bottomless mouths. It wants to close its jaws around them, swallow them down.

Yasha hurls herself from the mainmast. Her roar fills the sails. Beau catches only a glimpse: eyes black, lips peeled from sharp canines. Down she plunges, skeletal wings unfolding from her back, and –

_Zzzp._

Impales the lightning on her sword.

Battle is a strange way for any God to demand communion. But as Yasha stalks back to the Nein, energy crackling from her eyes, Beau can’t deny it suits her. Just being in her vicinity makes static prickle between the hairs on Beau’s arms. She licks her lips, tasting ozone. The things she could do with this. Tie Yasha to the foremast, rock into that brilliant, buzzing energy until they both glow –

Only... right. Indefinite hiatus, and all.

The storm clouds roll back. Thunder rumbles faintly, as if in approval. The night sky is clear as glass.

In the end, Jester and Caduceus tag-team Yasha, healing her before she bleeds out on the deck. She sprawls on her back, letting them work. Gazing up, up, at the stars.

Beau watches her watch them. She grips the rigging, where she clambered up for a vantage over the fight. Orly’s been teaching her to tie knots. There’s this one called the constrictor, similar to the clove hitch. You wrap the rope around whatever you want to bind, looping it over the starting end. Then repeat for a double-turn, and thread the working tip under both loops. Pull it tight, with an even distribution of stress, and it’ll never come undone. Even on the slipperiest wax twine.

Beau knows the theory. She's wrapped her head around each motion: under, over, under again, around and around and through. But whenever she tries to recreate the knot with her hands, she misses something. Leaves a slip-loop at the top or forgets the last pass.

She’s no good at tying things down. Not when they don’t want to be held in one place.

But Yasha’s gaze finds her, up there in the tops, backlit by her dying storm. And Beau swears she feels something coil around her vitals, yanking tight as the mainstay.

“Right,” she calls, clambering down to the deck. “If the freaky god-talks are over, I’m going to sleep. Catch you lot in the morning.”

It’s not _supposed_ to be an invitation. Her eyes don’t _linger_ on Yasha. Much. At least, not in a gay way.

Beau’s just, y’know. Admiring, from a purely aesthetic perspective, how divine power ignites Yasha’s pale skin. How arcs zap between the metal beads in her hair. The vividness of blood on white.

She’s maybe, just maybe, thinking about whether her tongue would get all tingly if they kissed.

But that’s all. She doesn’t glance over her shoulder as she heads below decks. Just shuts the door of her cabin behind her. Crosses to her suspended cot. Sits. And only grins a little, when heavy footsteps follow her, creaking down the stairs.

The cot rocks with her weight, swaying to the tip of the waves. Her heart, in contrast, performs whole-ass somersaults. Beau blames it on the gross fermented shark-goop they ate for dinner. Better indigestion, than admitting she hasn’t felt this giddy since she kissed Tori under her father’s wine cellar, rigging siphons to every tar-sealed cask.

This boat ( _ship,_ Fjord insists in the back of Beau’s head) isn’t the subtlest place to sneak around. Yasha’s footsteps follow the list of the waves, back and forth, back and forth. They come to a halt outside Beau’s door.

Beau wiggles almost hard enough to flip her hammock. She covers her face, screams silently into her hands, and uncovers it again. Then she arranges her features into the sort of surly smirk she’s practiced in the looking glass, and waits.

And waits.

And waits some more.

Dammit all. If she listens, she can hear Yasha _breathing._ She’s just _standing_ there, one thin pane of wood between them. Beau can picture her – eyes unfocused as she juggles whatever quandary is spiralling through her head. But she won’t call out. She won’t give her _any damn thing,_ not until Yasha makes the first move.

Let her be the wanting one, for a change.

_Knock-knock._

Beau exhales. “Come in,” she says, huskily. _Too_ huskily. Her voice catches and she has to cough ( _real smooth, Lionett_ ) _._ But the door swings inwards, and there’s Yasha, all alabaster angles.

“Hi?” she says, as if it’s one of life’s great philosophical questions and Beau might have the answer. A gorgeous, awkward wall of pale muscle and wild hair.

Fuck, Beau’s missed her. Every contradictory, oddball, mildly antisocial part.

…Maybe not the blood, still seeping through her strappy top. “Hi. Isn’t that supposed to be fixed?”

Yasha presses a hand to the wound like she’s only just noticed it. “Uh. Jester wanted to take me to Caduceus’s cabin. Keep healing.”

“Maybe you should’ve listened.”

“Maybe I should.”

A long pause. Beau stands before her legs start jigging. Whatever’s about to happen, she wants to meet Yasha on the level. Or, y’know, as on-the-level as you can get, with a foot of height difference. “That’s not, like, _complete exsanguination_ levels of leakage, right?”

“I’m still standing,” says Yasha, though she sways. “So, probably not.”

“Probably?”

“Probably.”

Beau folds her arms. She wants to go to her. She wants to pull her through that invisible barrier across the doorframe as much as she wants to shove her back, dig her fingers into the wound, make her cry. As if that would convince Yasha to take more care of herself. As if anything could.

“You gonna wait out there and bleed on the floor?” she settles on asking. “Or are you gonna tell me what you want?”

Yasha raises her eyes to Beau’s own. And – oh. _There’s_ that power. The storm within her has been captured, never tamed. “I want to feel something again.”

“So, this is – what? A ‘nearest willing warm body’ thing?” Not that Beau’s _opposed._ She loves The Sex, Yasha is supremely hot, etcetera. But –

“I want to feel something,” Yasha clarifies, “with you.”

She crosses the threshold, turning the cabin from small to claustrophobic with a single step. She’s unsteady on her feet, but Beau won’t worry until Yasha falls off them. One white finger strokes Beau’s lip, over her chin, where Yasha’s tattoo might sit if their places were reversed. Beau’s breath catches at the sizzle of static.

“So long as you don’t faint on me,” she says, twisting away before she does anything irrevocably stupid, like let her lashes flutter, or lean in for a kiss. She sidles around Yasha to kick shut the door.

Yasha’s mouth twitches. “I make no promises.”

There’s so much Beau should say. So much she should force out into the light, for both of their sakes. Her nightmares. Molly’s face, lips red as his eyes with his own bloody spit. The storm.

What did Yasha see in it? Gods bring visions, right? What vision could lead Yasha to her door?

Beau just presses one hand on the warm swell of Yasha’s chest. Over her heart. “You,” she says, smirk tugging her scarred cheek. “Me. At least three hours of downtime.”

Beau sees the moment Yasha remembers: the faint blush that tinges her nose. “…Ah.”

“Three hours, and a watch bell that rings once every two. I reckon we’re halfway through the current count, so…”

Yasha laughs. A tiny sound: barely more than a chuff of air escaping from the back of her throat. It looks like it surprises her. “We should probably, uh, get started then.”

Her expression softens when she looks at Beau. Ice thawing into a small smile, exquisitely fond. Beau yearns to bite it off her lips. That face doesn’t belong here. That’s a face you want to wake up to. Not one you spent the past several months doing your utmost to forget. But – hell. Yasha’s here now. She’s warm, and she’s beautiful, and she makes the sweetest noise when Beau pushes up on her toes, winds her favourite braid around her hand, and tugs her down to kiss.

It’s electric. Beau’s not being figurative. Frissons zigzag where their spit mingles, like Beau’s stuck her tongue in a whirling electromagnet. The charge overspills Yasha, glittering along each of Beau’s nerves.

“You’re going to make good on that promise,” she tells her, between crackling kisses. Commands, really. Much easier, to part with these words than _please, Yasha, stay._ “You’re gonna edge me,” – _kiss –_ “until” – _kiss, kiss – “_ that second bell rings, or I go into cardiac arrest. And if you’re a _very_ good girl, I will maybe, _maybe,_ give you the fucking you so obviously crave.”

Yasha’s face is red as her bloody chest. “I – yes. I like that. I mean. I _would_ like that. Very, very much.”

Beau wants to keep her there, peel open her leathers, see how far down that flush extends. But she doesn’t fancy either of their chances at staying upright on a rolling deck. Especially not when Yasha’s down a pint.

“First off, we need a rearrange…” She draws back, examining the ropes of her hammock-cot. “We could undo this. Lower it down.” She yanks the knot. Glares, when it doesn’t yield. Shit. She could’ve sworn she’d done it just like Orly said. “Okay, maybe not. Or –“

Yasha grabs the rope. She snaps it – heavy old sail-flax, thick as Beau’s wrist – like it’s a spiderweb.

“Or, yeah,” says Beau faintly, as Yasha strips off her cloak, laying it wet side down, then upends the cot, piling Beau's bedding on top. “We could just do that, I guess.”

Yasha shuffles the pillows around, then steps back to admire her handiwork. “You might,” she tells Beau, “want to lie down.”

“Are you kidding me?” Beau pokes the Stormlord’s crest, which guards the gash below Yasha’s clavicle. The metal is cold, slippery with blood. “ _You_ lie down. Before you fall, and I have to explain all this to poor Caduceus.”

Yasha looks like she might argue. But when Beau shoves her, she stumbles, gaze woozy. She lowers herself onto the pillows, though it’s more a controlled collapse.

“Seriously, I can think of better body fluids than blood to cover these pillows with. You need to call rain check?”

“The lightning only cracked a rib. Not my _bladder_. I’m good.” Still, she applies Healing Hands to herself. Just to the point where the wound scabs over, no longer weeping red down her chest.

“You’re good,” repeats Beau, because she needs it to be true. Because she _wants_ to believe her.

No Insight Check, though. Sometimes, it’s better to have faith.

She sinks down, slipping her furred coat from her shoulders, and draws Yasha into a kiss.

They spend the first minutes doing just that. Kissing. No need to rush things. Yasha’s hand hovers over the back of Beau’s neck. Then, tentative, she touches. Tracing the lines of her tattoo like she can feel them under Beau’s skin.

“For him?” she asks, of that green eye in the triangle, which watches the world at Beau’s back.

Beau nods, nuzzling up against her, reclaiming her mouth. She doesn’t know what she hopes for. For Yasha to appreciate the gesture? Tell her Molly would, too?

The barbarian just reaches up to her own nape, under her bloody froth of hair. She frowns, like she aches there too. Like she can’t quite work out why.

Weird. Probably pulled a muscle, leaping off that mast. She relaxes when Beau digs her thumbs in, untenses the knots. Those ones at least, she knows how to handle.

* * *

In the end, Yasha doesn’t touch her properly until the first bell rings. She doesn’t need to. The last of the storm energy crackles across her lips. She feeds it to Beau between kisses, turning them in their nest of pillows, licking electric trails down her neck, over her breasts. All the way down Beau’s torso. Then all the way back up again, though Beau whines and presses against her.

Yasha doesn’t up the pace. Just pins Beau’s hips to the seal furs and gull-feather blankets. Flexing that same unstoppable strength that makes Beau trip hard on power whenever she fucks Yasha apart.

The blood on her neck dries slowly. Beau keeps accidentally smearing it: a streak on Yasha’s cheek, more painting Beau’s bare chest. Her whole mouth tastes of iron.

“Talk,” whispers Yasha, as she finally nudges her way between Beau’s legs. She nuzzles her lowest abs, rubbing her bloody cheek there like Frumpkin when he’s making a new friend. Then lowers herself further, exhale breaking across Beau’s dampness. “Please.”

Beau’s tongue scrapes her teeth. Still, she wrangles words into order. Knowing just what Yasha wants, just how to provide it. “So good for me on your knees. Fuck, this suits you. Serving me like – like the slut you are.”

Yasha’s breath catches. Then – _oh._ There’s the first roll of her tongue, hot velvet against her.

“Fuck," chokes Beau. " _Y_ _es._ You were _made_ for this, you know. Made to be mine. To pleasure me like a whore. Whenever I snap my fucking fingers you roll over and spread -"

She isn't even thinking about what she's saying. Just letting the words flow. They roll out of her, a carnal deluge, hitching to Yasha’s rhythm. Her vision’s a blur, everything hazy, air humid from her gasps. Her body a lyre string, thrumming with sensation, plucked again and again and again.

When the clapper beats the brass curve of the bell on the deck overhead, Beau might be forgiven for mistaking it for just another pound of her heart. She feels each pulse through her entire body. All of her throbbing, alight.

“Look at you,” she gasps, catching a handful of Yasha’s mane. She draws her up, enough to hear her whimper, make her catch Beau’s gaze. The cool rush of air across her slicked cunt makes Beau thrust her hips, helpless, against nothing. But she still takes a moment to hook a finger in Yasha’s mouth, stroke her slippery lips and tongue. She pushes her thumb in, groaning when Yasha’s eyes half-lid and she instinctively sucks. “Needy slut. Getting so hot just eating my cunt. Bet you’re all soaked and sore and empty for it, aren’t you?”

Yasha nods. Eyes an eloquent plead.

Fuck.

It drives Beau batshit _crazy,_ how pliant and soft she gets like this. Letting Beau pull her hair, wipe her own drool over the stripe on her chin, move her head where she wants it.

“You wanna serve me? Beg for the honour of tasting me, like you’ll beg me to fuck you once I’m done?”

Yasha doesn’t even _hesitate._ “Please – Beau, _please –_ “

Oh, Beau doesn’t have the cruelty to deny her. She eases her back down (“Good girl, good girl.”)

Yasha bends so perfectly, eyes a glaze. She buries her nose in Beau’s tight black curls with what sounds like a muffled _thank you._ That alone pulls Beau so close to her peak she has to press her back into the piled bedding and grind her teeth until a tendon in her jaw pings. Not yet. No yield, no surrender. Not until the watchbell rings again –

But oh, it’s _so hard_ to hold out. Especially with Yasha moaning into her core, licking spirals round her clit.

Beau shudders. Heat spills behind her navel, spine arching. Her muscles lock in a tight, perfect cramp –

Only for Yasha (devil, angel) to pull away. “Three hours,” she reminds Beau. Her voice is as wrecked as Beau feels.

“Good girl,” she tells her again, dropping back on her throne of pillows. Gasping at the ceiling, watching it spin. “Keeping your promise. That’s it, good girl, good girl…”

How many more times does Yasha edge her up to the precipice, then pull her back down? Beau’s dizzy from it, vertigo and just a little sea-queasiness. She moans into every liquid slide of Yasha’s tongue, every wet slip of it against her clit. She aches for sensation – needing less, demanding more.

Yasha just _keeps going._ On and on, steady and unstoppable as the tide. She maintains that same slow, meditative pace. Beau thought it was infuriating before, but now it threatens to unfasten her mind from her body, spool out her soul.

Pleasure glitters in parts she didn’t know could _feel_ it. Under her knees, hooked over Yasha’s shoulders. Pooling in the Venus dimples on her back. Yasha’s thumbs dig into those, as she _lifts_ Beau’s lower body, tipping her up into the optimal position where she can fuck her on her tongue.

Footsteps trek back and forth across the deck above their heads. The creaks sink through the daze on Beau’s mind, distant, distorted. A world away. This place, this cosy, candlelit box in a swaying ship adrift on an endless sea: it belongs to them alone.

Yasha and Beau.

Beau and Yasha.

Two women, two points on a larger nexus of celestial energy. Beau has the most indescribable sense of something _greater._ Of meeting and melding, slipping into each other, a communion of flesh and pleasure and, _oh,_ maybe this is what the acolytes of the Cobalt Soul spoke of so fervently, when they received an answer to their prayers -

She can’t think straight (hilarious; she never has been). There’s only her and Yasha. Yasha, who licks up inside her like she knows one more direct press of her clit will spill her over. She's flushed to the hoops in her ears, eyes shut as she works. Hands as busy as her mouth, groping her own breasts, plucking at her nipples through her clothes. Stroking down, lower, until she arches into her own touch –

“Take your _fucking_ hand out of your pants,” Beau manages. She’s barely able to shape the words. She stretches back against the pillows, feverish, sweaty hair clinging to her cheeks. “You don’t cum until I say you do, Yash.”

A strangled whine. Yasha squirms where she kneels, thighs rubbing. A silent yearning. But with a last, shuddering rub to herself, she relents. She still massages her breasts with the heel of one hand, but the other grips Beau’s hip tight-to-bruises. Begging, between shaky licks, with her slick-glossed lips, her hungry, beautiful eyes –

“Please – please – Beau –“

Like she’s close, just from this. Just from touching Beau, tasting her pleasure. Like she would quiver and drip for her for hours, days, until Beau gave the command, then thank her all over again for the privilege of being granted release, and fuck, Beau _needs_ –

“I – I want you all wet and desperate – oh, _Gods_ – I’ll open you on my whole damn fist- fuck, _Yasha_ – oh – you’ll be biting the _fucking_ bed and – Gods, you’re beautiful, and you’re fucking _mine,_ Yasha, _Yash –“_

_Bong._

The watch bell cuts through the mounting pleasure. Is that her whimpering, or Yasha? Fuck, she can’t even tell anymore. Everything’s a febrile churn, pulsing electric, and Yasha fastens her mouth over Beau’s clit and tickles her with the very tip of her tongue and –

It’s a death, it’s a rebirth. It’s a thousand stupid, flowery metaphors.

Mostly, it’s Beau cumming so hard she almost snaps her spine in two.

* * *

Such a long time, before she can gather the muscle coordination to wiggle her fingers. Eons. Entire Empires rise and fall.

The fingers move, for anyone interested – though the jury’s still out on her toes.

Yasha has eeled up to nip at her shoulders and mouth shakily at her neck. Her breath’s as quivery as Beau’s legs, and everything between them.

Fuck, that was amazing. She feels unmade and ineffably alive and a little like she found God. When she tries to tell Yasha all this, all that comes out is a happy mush of “Mmmmmnmnm”.

There’s a brief pause. Then Yasha says, with complete sincerity, “Exactly.”

Beau sniggers. Then sniggers more, when that makes her muscles ache. “I feel like I’ve been fighting for an entire day.”

Yasha strokes her hair back from her face. Stupid, how the softness of her touch can make Beau’s pulse jump as much as any of the fondling that preceded it. “I suppose we’ve all, uh, been fighting far longer.”

There’s a sorrow in her eyes, the same faint shimmer as when she collects flowers. Does she still do that, Beau wants to know? She can’t imagine Yasha without her leatherbound book, its pages bright with seeds and petals. The book Molly gave her.

Drying a flower preserves it. But it doesn’t make it stronger. There's a beauty in that delicacy. Dead, flattened blooms: vibrant and fragile as butterfly wings. 

Beau’s always been too afraid to touch them. She was never any good at handling brittle things.

“Can I ask you something?”

Yasha’s expression goes guarded. Still, she nods, nails running up and down Beau’s bare, sweating side.

“Does running… help?”

The stroking stops.

“Just,” Beau continues. She can’t shake the sense that she’s stepping off the track, into the perilous marshland. But fuck it, she was born with an ingrained refusal to turn back. She picks her way around the words, navigating between solid ground and precarious pits. “I know we all have our own ways of… dealing. And I’m – I’m not judging you, or anything. You need to go, you go. Nothing’s stopping you.” _Nothing ever does._ “But – we care about you, Yasha. And that means we – “ _I_ “-worry.”

“You shouldn’t.” Yasha retreats from her. Only an inch. Regardless, the wash of cool air is unwelcome. Like plunging into an ice bath. Beau’s skin pulls tight to her muscle. “I can look after myself.”

There’s still blood on her cheek. Beau itches to reach up, rub it away.

“We all can," she says. "But we’re stronger together and – what if something happened, when you were out there alone? You've got people enslaving divine types like Lorenzo, and folks like Trent who think you’re a threat to the Empire because you had the audacity to be born in Xhorhas, and…” Beau shakes her head. Sex always loosens her mouth. But this is too deep, too personal. Everything she wishes would remain buried in her head. “I’m not trying to force you to stay. But if something happened to you on the far side of the world, and we found out, and we hadn’t been able to reach you, I’d be so fucking pissed at myself for not trying.”

“So, don’t look for me.”

The portcullis has fully dropped, now. Drawbridge raised, moat filled, cannons primed. Vats of boiling oil propped atop the bulwarks. Yasha’s face is blank as snow.

Pity Beau’s never been the sort to pass a crisp white bank without pressing in her footprint, leaving her mark.

“You can’t ask that of us," she says, catching Yasha's wrist. "You don’t know what it’s _like –_ “

“I don’t know what it’s like?” Yasha sits. Her hair’s smushed on one side from where she’s been curled around Beau, and her belts hang open around her waist. Must’ve unfastened them while Beau drifted down from cloud nine. Smart move: no way does Beau have the coordination to fumble through them all in a timely manner. It hurts when Yasha starts doing them up again, yanking the blood-daubed leather through the buckles and latching every clasp. “I don’t know _what it’s like,_ to be trapped, to not be able to reach someone when they’re dying?”

Beau runs her tongue over her cracked lips. They feel dry as rubber. “You. You heard – “

“What Lorenzo did to him?” Yasha’s only loud when she Rages. Then it’s all primal roars and battle cries, a mix between intimidation tactics and animalistic fury. This – this is quiet, and cold. Her voice sounds half-stifled, like her throat’s been strangled shut. Beau can’t tell if she’s pissed off or about to start crying. Both, she suspects, are likely.

Curse it all. She hates this. How could she be so _stupid?_ Fjord must've warned her a thousand times that the one sore spot you never dig your fingers into is your friends’ dead people -

“Yes. I heard him screaming.”

“Yasha. Yasha, I’m so sorry. I – “

“I was supposed to protect him. I failed. Again.”

 _Again?_ Beau champs that question hard between her molars, cracking it like a nut.

“You didn’t fail,” she tries. “There was nothing you could do – nothing anyone could do. Only one bastard killed him, and we killed him in return. Caleb lit him fucking _up,_ and he deserved every minute he burned.”

Yasha still won’t look at her. Her hands tremble, and she fluffs latching the last buckle five times.

Beau can’t bear it. She scoots towards her, swinging her legs off the bed. “Let me do that –“

Only for Yasha to flinch, like Beau’s touch is a scald. “You don’t _understand,_ ” she whispers.

“You keep saying that, but you won’t tell me anything!”

Finally – _finally –_ Yasha raises her gaze. Her eyes are red at both corners, tears clumping her lashes. “People I love,” she says, voice ragged as this thing in Beau’s chest, “keep _dying_.”

Beau thinks again of Yasha’s little book. All those flowers, for _somebody special_. She wants to ask, all of a sudden. Is now the right time? No – but it never will be.

Instead, it blurts out of her – “Please don’t fall in love with me, then.”

Flippant. _Stupid._ Like this is something to _joke_ about.

Yasha makes a broken sound. It could easily be a laugh or a sob. She leaves the last belt dangling as she staggers out the door, not bothering with a candle to light her way. Into the underbelly of the ship, swallowed by the dark. Her retreat up the corridor is heralded by vociferous planks and the occasional _bonk_ as she bangs her head on the low-slung rafters.

Beau drops her sweaty arm over her eyes. “Shit,” she says.

She could stay where she is. That climax was everything, melty and slow. All the better, like Yasha promised, for being delayed. It left her tender all over, the scrape of rough sailcloth against her bare back registering as _too much_. Beau doesn’t have any great desire to pull on her trousers, let alone walk over a rolling deck. Her bed’s warm and it smells of storms again; and really, it’s not like Yasha has anywhere to go. Unless she plans on diving off the side and swimming miles to the nearest shore.

Plus… Well. Yeah, Beau feels for her. She shouldn't have said that, and no one should have to suffer what Yasha’s going through. But she’s just the tiny bit frustrated, too. Because Yasha _chooses_ to suffer alone. Sure, Beau can accept that Yasha was closer to Molly than anyone. But it still _hurt,_ watching him die. Hurt like the glaive had slammed through her own sternum. Whenever Beau thinks back to that day, she forgets how to breathe.

But fuck. When Beau shuts her eyes, there’s Yasha’s. One blue eye, one purple. Swimming with saltwater, like she’s been drowned.

There’s this knot called a bowline. One of the most essential, Orly claims, for on-ship life. As easy to tie as it is to loosen, but still reliable, so long as you keep it under load.

Let it slacken though, just for an hour, and it might slip out of itself. Fall away.

Beau digs the heels of her hands into her own eyelids. She groans, when they come back moist. Then rolls to the side of the blanket nest – slowly, achily – and reaches for her clothes.

* * *

Yasha stands on the poop deck (no, Jester has yet to tire of that joke). Doesn’t take long for Beau to spot her, silhouetted against the vast full moon.

She hails the night watchmen. They look a bit freaked out – most likely by the giant barbarian woman who stomped outside for a late-night brooding session, after beating up a ball of lightning. Still, they return her nods. Beau stealths up behind Yasha, not wanting any creaks to fracture the perfect diamond stillness of the night.

A breeze tugs Yasha's hair. Tendrils of it flutter around her face, like invisible hands are goading her over the edge. She’s certainly staring intently enough. Down-down-down, into the black mirror of the sea.

Beau can’t explain the sudden panic that grips her. It’s not like Yasha’s preparing to swandive. Still, she foregoes her sneaking, letting the planks groan beneath her feet. She crosses to lean on the railing beside her, close enough for their shoulders to bump.

“Uh. Hey.”

Yasha still startles. “Beau? You didn’t have to follow me. It’s cold outside.”

Beau sees the guilt in her eyes. For all her irritation at Yasha’s… Yasha-y-ness, she can’t convince herself it’s deserved.

“Didn’t have to,” she says, turning her back on the ocean, where it slaps against their hull. She hooks her elbows over the rail, tilting up to admire the stars. “Did anyway. Make of that what you will.”

Yasha nods. Silence unreels between them like a silver thread, connecting them while somehow holding them further and further apart. Beau, as always, cuts it.

“I still get bad dreams, y’know.” She elaborates, when Yasha cocks her head: “About him. I watch him die, and get up, and run forward, and attack Lorenzo, and die all over again.”

“Beau, I –“

“No. Let me finish.”

This feels too raw to share, somehow. The sort of thing only Jester knows of, because she’s usually the one to shake Beau awake. To hold her, in the aftermath, rocking together. Crying just as hard.

Beau’s vision blurs. She wipes her eyes with a closed fist, though she knows this is one hurt she can’t punch until it goes away. “Thing is – just, y’know. Sometimes, it’s you in those nightmares, instead.”

Yasha enchained. Tormented by slavers who see her as a challenge to break. Wings cut from her shoulders, hair shaved back. Bloody and broken and so far beyond Beau’s reach.

Yasha swallows. The bones of her skull are brimming with night, shadows pooling in her eye sockets and the hollows of her cheeks. Moonlight glistens across her eyes, betraying their wetness. Beau has to pull her goggles down so she’s not squinting unattractively through the darkness (totally not to hide any moisture coating her own).

“I didn’t know,” says Yasha. Her big hand closes over Beau’s. “Beau, I’m sorry.”

 _Don’t say that unless you intend to change._ But Beau doesn’t pull away.

“Tell me about him,” she mutters, instead. She thinks of Molly often: his snark, his eye rolls, his hedonism and proclivities and enduring attitude of _I will do whatever the fuck I desire, and damn anyone who tells me otherwise._ She wagers Yasha thinks of him more.

Yasha holds her hand a moment longer. Then retreats, winding her pale fingers together, over and under and over again. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. Something. Anything. How did you meet?”

“A barfight. He started it.”

“Let me guess. You finished it.”

Yasha is melancholia, carved from marble. But there must be something in that memory, because one corner of her mouth perks up. “Something like that.”

Beau wishes they had something to drink. Alcohol might sand the razor-edges of this conversation. But there’s only the moonlight, so she gluts herself on it, watching it soak Yasha’s skin to ghostly translucence, glitter on each charm in her hair.

“I remember this one time,” she starts.

“Yes?”

“On the road, between the circus and where we met you in the bathhouse at Zadash. After, uh, fighting Kylre. I’d given Toya one of my bracelets, and she’d promised to be my nemesis, right?”

"I still can't believe your nemesis is a twelve-year-old girl. She was creepy.”

“She _was_. But Molly and me were on watch together one night, and – well, y’know. We were still pissing each other off half the time, back then. I can’t even remember what we were arguing about, but he wouldn’t stop smirking, and I was _so damn tempted_ to take a swing at him, but like – then he would’ve won, y’know? Because he called me a garbage person who just drinks and fights.”

“Well,” says Yasha, non-committal.

Beau glares.

“What? I – I like garbage. I guess. Which sounds weird, when I say it like that –“

“But _anyway,_ we were ribbing each other, getting a bit rowdy. There may or may not have been… substances, involved.”

“You and Molly took… _substances,_ on watch?”

Beau rolls her eyes. “Okay, Miss ‘would’ve let me eat her arse if a demon-deer hadn’t attacked’. You do _not_ get to judge how I spend my watches. Point is, our perception wasn’t at its best. So when we heard creepy singing from the woods, we, uh.” She grins, cupping the eye on her nape. “We freaked the _fuck_ out. Like, full on clinging to each other, almost pissing ourselves. We were _tripping._ Got it into our heads there was some nasty siren-monster about to eat our souls…”

“Was there?”

“Ha! No. It was Jester. We woke her up and she wanted to fuck with us, and she thoroughly succeeded.” The tattoo’s long-healed by now. Still, Beau swears she can feel the ink winding beneath her skin. A green eye, watching her back. Like Molly always did. “Kinda hard to be intimidated by his wit, once you’ve seen him change his pants after Jester sung an old harlot’s song, super-slowly and half in Infernal.”

She chuckles at the memory. Yasha doesn’t join in. Beau glances at her, and – fuck. She’s ballsed this up again. Silver streaks the aasamir’s cheeks. Smudging her warpaint, like she’s bleeding from both eyes.

“I – yeah,” she says, before Beau can stammer out an apology. She keeps smiling through the tears. “Yeah, that sounds like Molly. Our barfight… Some guy kept… bothering me, when I was trying to get a drink. I ignored him. Figured I’d snap his neck if he got too close, then leave town before the guards caught up. But I didn’t have to. Because Molly leaned over from where he was sat with his circus friends and he just. Y’know.”

Beau wants to wrap an arm around her. But she couldn’t bear it if Yasha flinched from her again. “Eviscerated him with his words?”

“Didn’t even have to use Vicious Mockery. The guy – he didn’t like tieflings. Especially not sharp-tongued ones.” Yasha studies her open palms. Her voice is a waver, thick-throated, wet. She doesn't bother wiping the tears. “I wound up breaking his neck anyway. But when I ran, I ran with Molly and the others. It. It felt good. To not be alone. I’m – he was so beautiful, you know? I’m so very glad he found me, when he did.”

 _We could run with you, too._ Beau keeps that trapped behind her teeth. This time she risks it - taking Yasha’s hand, pulling her away from the rail, from the night and the wild, wild sea.

“Come back to bed with me, Yash.”

“That’s very sweet, but I don’t think I’m in the mood to be fisted tonight.”

“ _What?_ ”

“…What? You said, earlier –“

“What?! No, I meant, like. To snuggle! Or whatever! Unless – unless you wanted to go back to your cabin, which is totally cool, and I get it, and –“

“Beau.” Yasha squeezes her fingers. How hot she runs, beneath her surface. To see her pallid, tear-stained face, you wouldn’t think she had a drop of blood in her. But she’s all warmth, all the way down. “I’d love to, uh, shnuggle with you.”

The rush of heat in Beau’s cheeks is entirely incidental. They’re standing outside on a chilly, sea-whipped night in way too little clothing. She must be coming down with something. That’s all.

“Right,” she mutters, turning for the stairs. Walking _just_ a tad stiff – thank fuck she wears loose-fit trousers. This whole midnight excursion was worth it, though, because Yasha doesn’t drop her hand. Just pads after her, letting Beau lead the way.

* * *

Morning streams though the casement windows. Light the colour of dehydrated piss drenches the bed and pokes Beau in both her eyes.

“Ugh… rude…”

She flips the new day off. Then frowns, realising she can’t. Then frowns more, realising why.

She and Yasha bedded down in the disembowelled entrails of Beau’s cot. She fell asleep spooned around Yasha (admittedly, more like backpacking). At some point in the night, her arm must’ve gotten trapped under Yasha’s bulk.

It was a one-sided battle. Yasha undoubtedly came off the victor, as all efforts to twitch Beau’s fingers result only in numbness, interspersed by shooting pins-and-needles.

Beau writes off the limb as acceptable collateral. She fits her belly to Yasha’s spine, resting her forehead between her shoulderblades. Feeling the swell and dip of her ribs, evening her own breath to match.

She considers waking her their usual way. But fun though that might be – nothing Beau loves more than rousing Yasha on her tongue, making her curve unconsciously into the pleasure – it’s been a while. Best wait for Yasha to wake up on her lonesome. Then Beau can check if she’s cool with such a reveille tomorrow.

Or, y’know, the next time they do this. Which could as easily be a year from now as never.

Beau doesn’t like to think about that.

In the end, she just cuddles her. One arm looped over Yasha’s side, knees tucked into the crook of her legs. She relearns the shape of her: the thick muscle around her shoulders and back, the sleek tuck of her waist.

Beau’s always been boyish. She’s not talking about her tendency to punch first, ask questions later, and cackle at Jester’s dick jokes. Her body’s straight up and straight down, chest as flat as her back. She’s a lean, mean, punching machine. It’s her shape and she loves it: loves inhabiting it and flexing it and pushing it to new extremes of training. Equally, she loves Yasha’s body for all of her differences: full breasts and a snatched waist and a fucking incredible arse; the precise mix of muscle and curve that makes Beau walk into walls whenever Yasha wears slim-fit clothing. All women are beautiful. Beau’s worshipped at altars of many sizes and shapes. But Gods above, she thinks, trailing her knuckles down the valley of Yasha’s side and up to the slumber-soft planes of muscle above her hip, she’s one lucky monk.

“Beau?” A sleepy mumble, from under all that wild hair. Beau sweeps it off Yasha’s face before she manages to smother herself. “What’re you doing?”

“Uh – just, uh – “ _Perving._ “Nothing. We should probably, like, get up, you know. Eat breakfast. Do boat stuff.”

“Boat stuff.”

“Ship stuff, I mean. Ropes and sails and rudders and shit. We’ve got a long way to go, before we find the next temple of Uk’otoa. Uk’otoa, Uk’otoa.”

Yasha twists to blink blearily at her. “Why three Uk’otoas, again?”

“Because Jester is insane, and contagious.”

“And adorable. Don’t forget that.”

Beau nods. She never knew her brother. Never wanted to. Perhaps she could reach out, make more of an effort. But a part of herself is afraid she’ll resent him for having what she doesn't. For knowing, from the moment he came into the world, that he was wanted, he is loved. And - sure, the damn kid didn’t ask to be born. But Beau never asked to be born either, and she certainly never asked for siblings. Point _is,_ if that sibling had come in the form of one bouncy blue tiefling… Well, then Beau might’ve been convinced.

“And adorable,” she agrees. “Can I have my arm back, please?”

Yasha’s eyes go wide. She rolls off and spends the next approximate half hour apologising, as Beau gingerly rotates her shoulder socket and flexes sensation back into her fist, wiggling into her day clothes on the way.

Strange, Beau thinks, giving up on reassuring Yasha after the fifteenth ‘sorry’. She hasn’t thought once about how good it is to have her back.

Not that it _isn’t._ It’s just so _easy_ , to fall back alongside her. To splash water on each other, scrubbing faces and chests in the chilly scuttlebutt, which doubles as a rudimentary basin. To simply _be_ together, existing in each other’s space, by each other’s side.

Yasha believes the Stormlord sent her here. Beau doesn’t put nearly as much stock in divine intervention. She vaguely follows the path of Ioun, but hasn’t really worshipped any god, Empire-approved or otherwise, since abandoning the Cobalt Soul. If you ask her, the innate _rightness_ of waking up beside Yasha and helping her untangle her hair from her ear piercings is all too human.

_Don’t fall in love with me, then._

Love is dangerous. Love makes you foolish – like Molly, diving into battle against the monster who enslaved his closest friend.

Love makes you weak. Makes you vulnerable. Makes you run as far and fast when it copulates, inevitably, with loss.

You’d have to be stupid to indulge it, thinks Beau, following Yasha out of her cabin. She bites her thumbnail, splintered on one edge from where she helped Fjord with the running rigging the morning before. So stupid, to want anything beyond sheer physicality, or to imagine another thousands mornings like this one, stretching away into their future. Stupid, stupid, _stupid._

Beau is not – will never be – that.

* * *

There’s only one knot she’s mastered. The sheet bend: where you join two ropes together. It’s easiest of the lot, the first Orly taught her. One twine loops around in a half figure of eight, the other weaving through the strands. It’s secure – so long as the two ends stick out in the same direction. As soon as they point away from each other, the binding weakens. It’ll fail at the first harsh yank.

Perhaps Beau and Yasha are finally facing the future together. Or they’ll unravel again, when the next storm blows in. Beau doesn't know. But there's only one way to find out.

* * *

* * *

* * *

Yasha doesn’t think much about knots.

Here is what Yasha thinks of:

  * Flowers (none, at sea)
  * Storms (also none: clear horizons all around)
  * How much Zuala would hate this entire quest.



She despised deep water. _I don’t trust things I can’t see the bottom of, my love._

How fortuitous, that Yasha is awful at lying. Zuala always saw straight through her, as if she were spun from ice.

To the Nein, she remains opaque. That’s okay. Yasha doesn’t remember how not to be a mystery. Not even to herself, anymore. Her ice is full of fractures, chunks of her mind hacked out with an axe.

Was this mutilation forced, or voluntary? Yasha has no real desire to find out. Perhaps that was what drew her to Molly. They were kindred spirits, two souls who wished only to keep walking, without ever once looking back.

Yasha thinks of Molly, too. Long nights spent saying little, drinking lots. Jangling piercings, bright tapestries, silver scars. She taught him to thread a needle and watched, over the course of two weeks, as he became a far more proficient tailor than she’d ever be. His deft purple fingers could hem a seam as quickly as they wove flowers through her hair.

He weaves nothing anymore. No more waking up to a new plait, blue with forget-me-nots. No more stories to add to his kaleidoscope coat.

Yasha believes in fate. Hard not to, when the thunder follows wherever she goes. But how could _that_ have been Molly’s? Either the Gods are crueller than she gives them credit for, or she’s cursed. She’s unsure which option is preferable.

For now, she trails behind her new tribe. Salt-breeze tugs her felted locks. One day, these winds will change. Yasha’s path will diverge from the Nein again. But for the next few weeks at least, the southerlies stay true. They belly the _Ball Eater’s_ sails, carrying them to the end of their map and oh-so-far beyond.

After retrieving the third orb from Diver’s Grave, they tack back towards Nicodranas. Thankfully, not every island is chocka with zombies and yellow-eyed leviathans. They make port before casting off on the journey’s last leg.

Janath is a bustling less-than-legal trade outpost. Any manner of merchant can exchange stock here without paying the King’s tariffs, even those who fly beneath Avantika’s flag. The ruins of an extinct volcano dwarf the town, a thorny crown atop a pillar of black basalt. The entire place looks inhospitable from a distance. Venture close enough, though – avoiding the reefs, under Orly’s navigation – and they find a snaggletoothed smile of rocks curving around a sleepy bay. The town is a jumble of bright market stalls and tall, crooked apartment complexes, hewn directly into wave-cut cliffs.

The _Ball Eater_ bobs high in the harbour, swarming with carpenters and crew. The Janathi dockyards ring loud as cathedral bells. Hammers strike nails, saws bite boards. Ropes creak from crane hooks, lifting cannons and crates of victuals, replenishing their hold for the journey ahead.

The Nein step onto the wooden pier, adjusting to the solidity of the planks beneath their feet. Beau stretches. She cracks her neck, then her elbows and her knees, just to make Caleb cringe. Her grin is bright as the broad morning sky, her eyes just as violently blue. Yasha turns from her before her stare gets stuck. Then _keeps_ turning, when she finds Jester waggling her eyebrows.

“This way!” calls Fjord. He waves them along one of the branching side-streets. Beau takes point beside her captain, Jester bounding up to join them. Caduceus and Nott amble behind.

Yasha waits a moment. Glancing out to sea. Scanning for storms.

Caleb watches her sidelong. He lets her guard their six, as she always does when they cross new terrain. But a snap of his fingers summons Frumpkin to drape over her shoulders like a fuzzy ginger scarf, and it’s hard to think of Gods when your ears are full of purring.

They have enough gold between them to spend the evening in luxury. Fjord guides them to one of the brasseries at the zenith of the island ( _“Like, a piece of lingerie?” “Brasserie, Jester. Not brassiere.”_ ) A striped veranda overshadows a bustling porch, carved from driftwood the same colour as the sun-picked beach. The view down to the shoreline makes their ship look small as a child’s toy.

It’s pretty.

It would be prettier, if flowers grew on barren sand.

The Nein turn heads when they enter the bar. A band of seven with six different races between them, there isn’t a town in Exandria where they won’t catch stares. Yasha should be used to it, by now. At the very least, her size means she never waits long to be served. Still, her shoulders shrink when she stutters over her order, and it’s with relief that she backs away after, tankard slopping, to let Caleb take her place.

Beau bagsies them a table on the porch. She sprawls over as much seating as possible. Any mutters from fellow patrons are answered with flipped birds and a sneer. She’s Yasha’s opposite, in this as in so many things. The monk has a big vocabulary – all that reading – but as far as Yasha knows, _self-conscious_ isn’t in it.

Yasha heads over, hiding her smile in her drink. “I’ll guard while you head in?”

“Thanks.” Beau wiggles out from behind the table, sending one last scowl at a neighbouring merchant. There’s this moment when she squeezes around Yasha, pressing close, when Yasha thinks Beau might say something. When she thinks she might, too.

Then Beau clears her throat and shuffles her feet, and Yasha steps aside to let her pass.

* * *

The Nein convene once they’ve all been served. Mead for Yasha, a sickly-sweet taste of the past. Tea for Caduceus, something hoppy and Zemnian for Caleb and Beau. Straight whiskey for Nott, diluted scotch for Fjord (“Not a White Xhorhasian?” “Beau, _stop –_ “), and a glass of milk chasing a bright pink mocktail for Jester, which probably tastes as obnoxious as it looks. Fjord waits for them to take their seats before standing and _hem-hem_ ming into his fist.

“I wanted,” he said, raising his perspiring glass, “to thank you all for following me on this venture. You’ve put your lives on the line for me so many times over the past few months. I don’t know how to express my gratitude.”

“You could buy this round?” suggests Caleb.

Nott nods vigorously. “And the next dozen!”

Fjord rolls his eyes, though his grin doesn’t fade. “I’ll have the barkeep open a tab. Seriously, though.” He looks at them, one by one. Even Yasha. That’s nice, she supposes. “Thank you. It means – this means – you all mean a lot.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” drawls Beau. She still sits like she’s trying to take up space: legs wide, elbows hooked on the back of the bench. Always making herself larger. “You’re our captain. We have your back.”

The others nod, Jester raising a toast. They all drink, Yasha too.

She can’t help but glance at the ocean. Waiting for the pale froth of clouds to darken, for the siren-song of the storm.

Nothing. Only sea and sky. Wheeling gulls. The distant jangle of tackle at the docks.

Yasha goes back to her mead.

* * *

The Nein hog that table for the rest of the evening, ordering one round after the next. It remains unspoken that this is their chance to kick loose. Come morning, they set sail for Exandria. The war seems so faraway, but its scars cut deep. Passing sailors gripe of stock commandeered by hungry soldiers. The name of Yasha’s motherland is only ever accompanied by spit.

Not that she minds. Xhorhas – the misty swamps, the boom of bitterns across the marsh, the crack of steel on bone – none of that felt much like home. Except one woman. Hair as brown as her eyes, brown as the earth she’s buried beneath –

“Hey,” says Beau.

“Mm?”

The night has worn on, sun sinking beneath the waves. The Nein are standing. Jester pushes her chair back from the table with a squeak that makes Yasha jump.

Must’ve lost time. That happens, sometimes. Happened more, when she was on the road alone after Zuala (and after Molly, too). Like she slips out of her own head, into – well. She doesn’t know.

Grief is a thing of gaps. It coils darkly in the crevices of your being. Yasha suspects she may be more gap than substance, nowadays. But Beau stands over her, casting her in her shadow, blocking the last red threads of the dying sun. And gaps can’t feel warm inside, when pretty blue-eyed monks brush the backs of their hands.

“Bottom’s up,” Beau says. She knocks her knuckles on Yasha’s half-drained tankard. “We’re going shopping before we bunk down for the night. Anywhere you want to head?”

“Not really. I’ll just… follow where you go.” She’s good at that.

Beau nods. As Yasha finishes her drink, she jogs to the front of their party (always first in the Marching Order). She links elbows with Jester, challenging Caleb to an old Zemnian drinking song.

The warmth of her touch lingers longer than she does. A cuff on Yasha’s wrist, pulling her after the Nein, sure as gravity.

They traipse through the town. Night simmers, thick with insects and trapped sweat. One problem with a midnight shopping spree: everywhere’s shut. With the exception of bars, that is. And brothels.

No King’s Guard here to crack down on the trade. Women, men, more. Too young, too old, and those trying too hard to look like the former. They drape the streets, cooing at every likely cull. Yasha counts all races common to the Empire and several others beside. Bared breasts, cochineal lips. Their gauzy garb flutters like moth wings, so sheer it might rip at a touch of sword-callused hands. 

The street workers call out to the Nein as they pass. Fjord turns an ever-deepening emerald, while Caduceus’s ears flick in discomfort. Beau shoots winks and compliments left and right, adjusting her coat to best show off her deltoids, while Jester enthusiastically quizzes one of the ladies for make-up tips. Yasha – well. She just plods along, eyes on the ground.

Until –

“Hey, big boy!”

A tap at her shoulder. The woman realizes her mistake as soon as Yasha turns. Rather than apologising, she treats Yasha to a smirk, eyes raking up and down like she’s peeling her from her learther top.

“Or not. Well, aren’t you a stunner, sweetheart?”

Yasha makes to duck away. Then pauses. The woman has long brown hair, tumbling almost to her waist. For a moment, Yasha thinks there’s a tiny white flower tucked behind her ear – but no. Just a few crumbs of sand.

“Well?” the lady prompts, hip cocked. Her dress has a slit up the thigh. Impressive, given how little fabric she’s working with. Yasha can’t figure out how it stays on. Quite the feat; Molly would marvel. “How about it, beautiful? You look like you need somewhere to call port in a storm.”

Yasha checks to make sure the volcano hasn’t erupted. Nope, that’s just all her blood rushing into her face. “I – ah – you’re very lovely –“ Stifled laughter. The rest of the Nein crack up behind her. Nott sounds like she's choking on her own spit. “But I, I like storms actually, and –“

“Okay,” says Beau. She grabs Yasha’s wrist, smile all-teeth. “Sorry, darling. That’s a no.”

The lady shrugs. She slinks in Caleb’s direction instead (who looks tempted to cast Polymorph on himself to shake her attention and drunk enough to try). “How about you, love? Looking for your boat to be rocked?”

“Gods,” mutters Beau. She starts walking, tugging Yasha along. “That was _painful._ Respect for the profession and all, but nought out of ten for those pick-up lines. I thought she’d ask you to shiver her timbers.”

“I’m glad she didn’t. I don’t usually do…” Yasha nods vaguely backwards. “That.”

“Oh, really?”

“Hm?”

“Just… Remember that time at – the Pillow Trove, was it? When you said you preferred _several_ companions?”

Yasha can walk the roads of Exandria for a month and not speak a single word. But barely a day goes by in the Nein’s company when she _doesn’t_ have to hide her flush behind her hair. “Companion is… the friend you drink with, after a fight? You, the Nein, you’re all my companions. I didn’t mean –“

Beau gives one of her nasal laughs. “You heard it here first, folks! Yasha likes orgies.”

Thankfully, the others are too busy rescuing a dazed-looking Caleb to notice. Yasha takes a too-long stride, almost stepping on the heel of Beau’s boot. “I – I haven’t actually been with anyone before, besides you and –“

She can’t say it. Years, and still Yasha falters over her name.

Beau glances up. The blue of her eyes is eaten by shadow. She says nothing. Only drops Yasha’s wrist and ups her pace, taking a sharp right turn.

Yasha can’t shake the sense something just slipped between her fingers. She knows exactly what it is. Just not how to grasp on. Far easier, at the end of the day, to keep following.

She finds her voice again as Beau leads her deeper into the intestinal knot of back-alleys that crowd the island’s lowlands: “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know.”

“I – Beau – “

Beau doesn’t glance back at her. Her wiry shoulders are hunched in her coat. Yasha lapses once more into silence.

* * *

The Nein continue for several streets. Jester veers off, making a noise that rises sharply into a boiled kettle-squeal. “Oh! My! _God!_ Guys, guys, I think I see a _sex shop!_ ”

“That’s not a,” Beau starts. Then frowns, backpeddling, to squint at the window display. “Oh, no. I’m wrong. Definitely a sex shop. Not just, uh, really abstract pottery.”

Caduceus peers over Yasha’s head. “Mm. I can understand the confusion. Some of these are… comically proportioned.”

Nott sniggers. “Maybe to you.”

“I’m not going to deny that. How would anyone _walk_ with a foot-long –“

“Look!” Jester grin gleams bright as her silver-capped horns. “That one’s got the Traveller on it! The shop must be some sort of shrine!”

“No – see there?” Fjord’s incapable of studying the display for more than a second at a time. If he keeps turning back and forth, he’ll give himself whiplash. “That’s part of a set. The Major Arcana.”

Jester gasps. “Like on Molly’s cards!”

Yasha tenses. She wants to scan the road for a purple tiefling, a patchwork coat. She doesn’t. Far nicer, to pretend he’s still be out there, tracking the Nein as she does, having crawled from his second grave. She doesn’t want to face the emptiness of the night; the knowledge Caduceus rotted him to nothing, not even bones.

“Hey.” Nott nods to a construct in the lower left corner of the display, of a size which can only be intended for use as a table ornament. “Check it out, Yasha. This one’s got flowers on it.”

A whole meadow’s worth. “It’s, um. Very. Ambitious.”

Caleb looks wan. “Certainly, that is one word for it.”

Beau slams her fist into her palm. “I’m going in,” she declares. “In Molly’s memory.”

Jester nods, jangling her bells. “It’s what he would want! And we all have to buy something. For Mollymauk, long may he reign!”

Caduceus shrugs his gangly, hairy shoulders. “Sure,” he says. Then, upon receiving several stares – “I’m sure they have some nice massagers. My back gets stiff from all this fighting.”

“And just because a dude doesn’t want to fuck other people doesn’t mean he can’t crank one out in a while,” says Beau – right as Caduceus ducks under the entranceway. It’s luck alone that stops him braining himself on the low-slung doorframe.

Yasha smiles. She swallows it when she catches Caleb watching.

“I think he’d approve,” she says. “Don’t you?”

The wizard rubs the tension-knot from between his brows. “This _is_ quintessentially Mollymauk, isn’t it? But, ah, I believe I saw a stationary shop by the pier that said something about late opening hours –“

“Nope!” Nott grabs a fistful of his trouserleg, dragging him in. “You’re not getting out of this that easily. You’ve got enough paper to cover the ship. And speaking of ships – hey, Fjord? If you’re serious about your gratitude, why not buy everything for us here, too?”

Fjord protests, Nott wheedles, Caleb sighs. Jester and Beau giggle over the flavoured array of barrier protections. Yasha, as always, shakes her head and trudges behind.

The line where the sea meets the sky remains silent. No summons from the Stormlord. Not tonight.

When did that start making her feel grateful, rather than lost?

* * *

The sex shop isn’t the most expansive establishment. Or the most hygienic. Yasha counts more than one mouse dropping. Still, the proprietors have crammed an impressive amount of stock between the four walls. The shelves are piled to the ceiling, up past where even Caduceus can reach. The Nein sidle sideways down the aisle so as not to knock over an artfully arranged pyramid of dildos. They do so under the watch of the shopkeeper: an elderly woman with the mistrustful glare of one whose customers are often inebriated.

Yasha examines a tray of silver piercings. She lifts one, stroking the curved bar, wondering if they come in doubles, when –

“Ooh!” A blue hand swipes it from her grip. “My mum told me about these! Is that a dydoe? Or a frenum? Hey, Fjord! Fjord! Do you want a piercing for your cock?”

Yasha relinquishes the ornament with no complaints. She reverses out the aisle with an instinctive ‘sorry’ when she backs into someone.

Beau catches her balance. She manages to right herself without elbowing anything off the shelves to either side. Dope monk shit, and all that. “No worries. Uh. You figure out what you’re buying, yet?”

“I thought I’d found a piercing, but Jester says it’s for dicks.”

Beau snickers. She tucks a vial of something into her coat – must’ve already visited the till. “No wonder she gave it to Fjord.”

“Hey!” calls Fjord, from over the shelves. He sounds more tired than offended.

Beau acts like she didn’t hear. The store’s lit by a sultry-red magelight. It glitters off her tongue, when it darts out to dampen her lips. “You like piercings, huh?” The tip of one finger dances along the studs and hoops that adorn Yasha’s ear. “I can work with that.”

“Um.” It’s a fight to keep her breathing steady. Yasha would blame it on the mead, but she knows that’s untrue. This is Beau, all Beau. Getting in her space, sliding under her skin. “Not. Not like that, I don’t think. Molly gave me several, so, it seemed… appropriate?”

“Whole point of this is to be as _inappropriate_ as possible.”

Beau tugs Yasha’s lowest hoop. It doesn’t _hurt._ Not when her pain scale stretches from period cramps to ‘holy fuck I’ve been impaled by the fang of a giant venomous spider’. Yasha still goes deathly still, struggling to swallow. 

And Beau – well. Beau _notices._

Her eyes slit, all predator. Studying Yasha like she’s small enough to gobble whole. Yasha needs to say something, anything, before that look burrows her through –

“What, um, did you get?”

“Oh, you’ll find out.” Beau unhooks her finger from Yasha’s earring with a wave that encompasses the plethora of Things To Screw And Be Screwed With that loom at them from all sides. “Come on, your choice. Pick something. Take some initiative.”

“…I’m shit at Initiative.”

“Fair. Let’s narrow it down, if you can’t decide.” Beau pushes onto her tiptoes. Her voice drops to a husk. “Why don’t you go back to that window display, hm? And pick out a pretty cock for me to fuck you with?”

_Stormlord._

Yasha gulps. “I, uh… yes. That’s. A good idea.”

Beau sends her on her way with a pat to her arse. She misjudges Yasha’s height, getting more thigh, but hey. Yasha isn’t complaining. She isn’t complaining about _any_ of this. Especially not when she finds out the flower toy comes in a size less suited to being used as a melee weapon.

“It’s pretty,” she says, when she catches Jester staring. “That’s all.”

Judging by the giggles, she’s still awful at lying.

Nott demands that Fjord pay for their purchases – with the exception of Beau, who’s already bought hers, and won’t tell anyone of its nature. _You’ll find out later._ Yasha shivers, tucking her feathered shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“We should get a discount!” Jester insists, as Fjord tallies up. “We’re the Mighty Nein!”

The shopkeeper lurches to life at the d-word, digging wax from her ear. “I’ve never heard of you. And – the Mighty Nine? I count only seven.”

“We’re monster slayers,” says Beau, “not mathematicians.”

The old lady casts a disparaging look at Fjord, who’s adding on his fingers. “That much is evident.”

Yasha clears her throat. “I could do the haggling? If you want?”

Cue stares.

“Are you joking?” ventures Caleb, at last.

“Yes.”

It’s nice, when they all laugh. Molly and Zuala were the only other ones who ever got her jokes.

 _Your deadpan has rigor mortis,_ Molly once said. _You need to work on your delivery, dear._

She swears she can still feel his weight on her back when she sleeps. Tieflings run hot. But his ice-blood magic fucked with his temperature, and he was forever creeping under her blankets.

Someone once told her time lessens grief. That’s not true. Time just makes it easier to forget. Then, the moments when you recall everything you’ve lost stand out sharper and starker in comparison.

Yasha’s done enough forgetting for a lifetime. Zuala, Molly… She wants to remember.

“This was a good idea,” she tells Jester, as they sidle out into the night. The Nein have toppled over the crest of tipsy energy. Even Jester is lagging, catching yawns in her fist. Still, she rustles up a smile for Yasha.

“You think he’d like it?”

“I think, wherever he is, Molly finds this fucking hilarious.”

Jester beams. She spends the walk back to the ship telling the Nein in detail about every fancy function on her new clockwork vibrator.

The skies are silent. The sea is a starry mirror, unmuddled by reflected clouds. As Yasha creaks along the pier behind her friends, shuffling so as not to slip on the algae-coated planks, she finds herself praying that for one night more, her god will leave her be.

* * *

The boat rocks. Even here, tethered to port.

Fjord insists it’s comforting – once you’ve found your sealegs and stopped hurling over the side. But Yasha can’t sleep. Can’t concentrate, even to flick through her book of flowers. The side-to-side sway pulls on her mind. She hasn’t puked in three weeks (and then only because Caleb did first). Still, she feels weirdly tight on the inside, like everything’s clenching.

It takes a knock at her cabin door for her to recognise it. Not queasiness. _Anticipation_.

Beau’s grin cuts across her dark face. She saunters in as soon as Yasha opens the door, bare shoulders gleaming in the light of the lantern. The flame wavers up towards the ceiling, wick burnt low to the oil. The beer on her breath, when she shuts the door with her hip and catches Yasha in a messy kiss, makes a sour contrast to the mead-residue on Yasha’s tongue.

“Okay?” she murmurs.

Is she? Is any of this okay?

Their odd tribute to Molly; Zuala’s flower-book, discarded on her desk? The Stormlord’s buckle, unclasped from her cloak?

Is Yasha allowed to strip herself of duty and guilt? Is she permitted to be anything as breathtakingly simple as _Beau’s_?

Maybe not. But Yasha _wants._ She wants so badly. And if Molly were here, he’d tell her there’s never any shame in wanting.

So Yasha scoops Beau up, one arm under her arse. She pins her back against the door to kiss her giddy giggle from her lips. That bubbles down inside her, filling her with air. Lightening the chains that sway beneath her heart.

“Okay,” she agrees. If it’s a lie, it’s the best she’s ever told.

They stay like that as long as they can bear it. Trading kiss after kiss, slow and secretive. Like each slide of their tongues is a treachery. Beau winds her arms around Yasha’s neck, wiry legs squeezing her waist. She rubs herself rough on Yasha’s abs. And – fuck, she must not be wearing underwear. Yasha can _feel_ her, damp seeping through her thin sleep pants. Kord above, but she wants to taste her again –

“No, no,” Beau manages, when Yasha tries to heft her up onto her shoulders so she can part her on her tongue. “Not tonight. My turn, now.”

Yasha can’t refuse. She’s weak for her, always. Literally. Her knees go wobbly when Beau grins up at her, eyes hot with promise.

_Choose a nice pretty cock for me to fuck you with…_

Yasha could get drunk on that thought alone.

By miracle or providence, she carries Beau to her cot bed without tripping. She has to set her down so she can strip the bedding, pile it on the floor. That’s quick, careless work. All Yasha can think of, as she bundles the pillows out onto the planks, is Beau: lean muscle and wicked tongue. Bronze skin and the prickly fuzz of her shaved scalp and how she can have Yasha on her knees with a word, like no one else has been able to, no one since –

Yasha plumps the cushions far more than necessary. Then turns, flush already creeping hot down her collarbones, to find Beau beside the nailed-down sea dresser, turning the ceramic cock in her hands.

“Nice,” she says, while Yasha tries to recall how to fill her lungs. Beau holds the toy like her staff. An easy grip. Confident as the one she has over Yasha. “Bit cold. Don’t worry, I’ll warm it up for you.”

“I – I don’t mind the cold.”

“Nah, c’mon. I wanna treat you right.” Beau closes the gap between them. One push at Yasha’s chest; that’s all it takes. She falls back onto the blanket nest, a felled tree.

Beau doesn’t have that much strength. But the feral glint in her eyes turns Yasha’s ankles to jelly, and judging by the smirk, she likes being the one to shove her around. To move her, like she’s nothing.

Gods, but Yasha wants to be nothing for Beau. And something, and everything too.

She strips her belts with fumbling hands, passing them over at Beau’s direction. The cock didn’t stand upright on the dresser. It has two loops at the bottom and a textured base. Yasha had puzzled over them, wondering as to their purpose – but that becomes clear when Beau kicks off her underwear and winds the belts through the hoops, then back around her slim, unshaven legs.

She goes to pull them tight – then pauses, snaps her fingers. Ducks to retrieve something from her pocket. The cock waggles against her thigh in a way that’d be hilarious, if Yasha couldn’t already feel herself slickening.

It’s crazy. She’s never been interested in… these. Not when they’re, y’know, flesh and blood and attached to people. Molly (being Molly) offered once, first time he snuck into her bed. But after she stuttered out an ‘I – I don’t think I’m – into… what you are’ (then a still _more_ awkward insistence that his race was less of a turn-off than what lay within his trousers) he laughed at her, tweaked her nose, and flopped down to sleep.

But apparently, when the cock’s baked from clay and painted with climbing lonicera – or perhaps, just when the cock’s attached to Beauregard… All signs point to this being a _yes._

Beau finds what she was searching for. That crystalline vial from the shop, stoppered with what looks like red letter-wax. “Gotcha. Good, didn’t break. That would be awkward.”

Yasha pauses, midway through wriggling from her trousers. “What is it?”

“Like I said.” Beau crumbles the wax between thumb and forefinger. She tips a little liquid over both. It has a strange viscosity, somewhere between oil and water. Other than that, Yasha can’t see anything special about it. But Beau makes this breathy moan, as she strokes it over the textured back of the toy, then tightens the straps so its base rests flush to her mound. “You’ll – mmm. You’ll find out.”

Yasha pulses hot between her legs. “I think I’d like that, I – “

Her voice stutters back down her throat as Beau crawls over her, thumb corking the vial so it doesn’t spill. She mouths at Yasha’s breasts with just a hint of teeth. Then, when she has her making soft, needy noises (because Beau likes her to be loud, and it doesn’t come naturally but _oh,_ Yasha wants to be good, so good for her - ) she dips a pinkie in the oil and draws shimmering circles around each peachy areola. Glossing them aureate, beneath the light of their lamp.

A faint spice – cloves? – softens the scent of burning phosphorous. Yasha sniffs, trying to place it.

Then gasps.

Then _moans,_ as the oil prickles to life, red-hot, stippling sensitive skin.

“I – oh, that’s –“

“Nice?” Beau pets her nipples to gold, shimmering peaks. Oil coats her fingers, more leaking from under where her fake cock sits. Her eyes are cobalt slices, her smile the devil itself. “Definitely worth the gold I paid for it.”

And more. Everywhere that oil touches turns divine. Yasha’s breasts. The bumps of her collarbones. The divots between each abdominal muscle. Beau _paints_ her, Yasha’s body her canvas. Drawing tingling swirls, sizzling spirals. Sucking hickies into her neck, anointing each bite with a shimmer of fire-blessed oil.

Yasha squirms beneath the onslaught: the pull of new bruises, the liquid heat. When Beau slaps her thigh and says “spread ‘em,” she almost pops a hip, so eager to obey.

More oil drizzles over her. Coating her folds, trickling down the cleft of her arse. It smells of wintercrest and snowy evenings before the fire. Cinnamon spice, blackberry wine. Glistening in the lamplight like molten jewels. 

Then –

 _Ah._ There it is. The tingling. Yasha catches her lip between her incisors. Bites till she tastes blood.

Her hips shift without her permission, rocking into the rising warmth. All of her is so wet, so tender. Sharp and sore, like she’s already cum.

Beau grins. She massages the oil in, tracing her clit where it peeks from its pink little hood. Yasha _keens_ at that – then again as Beau parts her pleats to fuck the oil softly up inside her.

“Gods – Beau –“

“Always so wet for me,” Beau purrs. “Hardly need this, do you?” Another full thrust of two fingers. That maddening tingle spreads: deeper, deeper. Not deep enough. “Though I reckon it makes things more fun. Don’t you?”

There’s that smile: the one she only ever wears before she kills something, or when she tears Yasha apart. Hunger. Like she could peak her again and again and never be satisfied. Like she wants her broken and breathless, falling to dust at her touch.

“Y-yes…”

Yasha would fall for her, she thinks. Fall forevermore.

She thought the same for Zuala. Her devotion only lasted until the blade touched her wife’s neck – but Yasha can’t think of that. Not here. Not now. Not while she’s moaning louder for each squelching seat of Beau’s fingers, startled by the volume vibrating from her chest.

She takes three easily. Can barely feel the stretch. She feels impossibly soft inside, squeezing at the apex of each thrust like her body wants to hold Beau deep. When Beau draws them out, she whines. Her slick runs down the inside of her thighs, tainted with oil and spice. Emptiness carves into her, hollow and cold. She wants – wants her, wants _Beau_ –

She only realizes what she’s saying (“Please, please, please –“) when Beau catches her reaching hand and draws it to her lips for a kiss. She sets the vial – only a quarter empty – far enough away that they won’t knock it over. Then shuffles closer, nudging Yasha’s legs a touch further apart.

“Here we go,” she whispers. Her small, pert breasts brush Yasha’s as she leans to lick her throat. It’s electric. She arches for more contact, needing more of their oil-slicked skin to connect. Beau indulges her a moment, sealing their bodies, letting Yasha relax beneath her familiar weight. Then she sits back on her heels, reaching below.

To position herself, Yasha’s hazy mind supplies. ( _“Yes, please Beau, please – “_ ) She’s starving for it.

And Beau – Beau knows just how much to give.

She feeds Yasha the head. No more, no less. In it dips. Then pulls back, then dips in. Slipping just through her entrance, over and over until Yasha thinks she might go crazy from it. Only when she’s too lost to stifle her moans does Beau smirk and readjust herself, pressing slowly, inexorably, inside.

Further, further. All the way.

Yasha hears herself whimper. She presses her head into the pillows, fluttering around the toy. Such a thick intrusion. Stuffing her deep, fuller than she’s ever been.

Oil kisses every nerve. She reaches down, blind. Beau takes her hand. Lets her feel the place where they’re joined, the slippery stretch of herself.

“See,” she murmurs. Bucking into Yasha’s tightness, moaning at the give. Right: she smeared the base with this same infernal slick. It must grind sweet against her clit, every time she hilts. “You’re taking me so good, Yash. Gonna make you feel so good, everywhere.”

She’s so beautiful. Yasha strokes a hank of sweat-black hair, loose from its topknot, back behind Beau’s ear. Heat strums from within her. But a new warmth spills in her chest when Beau nuzzles her hand, kissing the palm. Arousal, affection. Both mingling, swirling like the point where two tides meet.

“Move,” she says, almost a growl. “ _More,_ Beau _–_ “

Beau pulls out, dripping heat. Slides back in, frictionless. A slick plunge that leaves them both gasping. Then she leans up, bracing herself over Yasha on ropy brown arms. And does it again.

And again.

And again.

Takes a little trial and error (and a few winces on Yasha’s part) to find the right angle. But Yasha doesn’t mind the jab of a missed thrust. She never minds, when it’s Beau dishing out the pain. She rocks with her, easing into the rhythm. The snap of Beau’s hips, the wet squelch. The way Yasha clutches her so needily on the outdraw, body grasping, wanting, beyond her control.

“Think you can cum?” Beau whispers, once she’s found the perfect position – stuffing a pillow under Yasha’s arse, folding her back so her knees brush her shoulders whenever Beau fucks down. She bends over her, their bodies a sweaty clasp. Oil smears their breasts, their stomachs: torturous, stippling heat. She catches Yasha’s lowest ear piercing and gives it another tug – this time with teeth. “Just from this?”

Shunting her. Back and forth, back and forth.

Yasha nods. She can already feel it building. A clenching, furling thing, white as untainted wings.

“Mm, good girl. You’re gonna cum on my cock for me, aren’t you?”

Yasha’s pleasure-drunk. Head a tipsy spin. She nods some more. For a moment, she thinks Beau’ll give the order right then and there. Thinks she might be able to do it, too. Tip back into her own head, let herself fizzle away. But just as she starts to clench down, groaning at each push of the dildo against that soft, slick spot inside her that connects to every nerve –

An oil-smeared hand cups her cheek. “Not yet though. You wait, gorgeous.” Down the hand slides. Wrapping – just loosely – around Yasha’s throat. The cock withdraws, to that point where she’s barely parted. Leaving her wringing wetly on nothing. “You wait until I say.”

No, no, she _needs –_

But more than that, more than the demanding clench of her body…

Yasha wants to be Beau’s good girl.

Frustration leaves her clenching her jaw, grinding her teeth. She must look fucking terrifying. Red rimming her pupils like she’s about to Rage. Brows low, eyes furious, veins standing out from her neck.

Beau doesn’t look afraid. Quite the opposite, in fact. She just waits her out, smirking. Staying perfectly still until Yasha flops defeated on the pillows – when she rewards her with a smooth push, easing back in.

Heat churns inside her. So much, Yasha wants to say. _You’re going to ruin me. I think I would let you._ But the way Beau moves – hypnotic as a snake, rolling into each thrust in a toned flex of muscle... Fucking her so slow, so smooth, to the slap of the waves; looking Yasha _right in the eyes_... When she tries to speak, all that comes out are moans.

“Hold onto me,” Beau murmurs. That’s all Yasha _can_ do. Gripping her shoulders, her hips. Calves crossed on Beau’s back, whimpering in staccato bursts as she’s opened on their pretty cock, split so deep she swears she can _taste_ the oil.

It would be _so easy_ to let go. Waves pulse through her from each rub of the cock against her frontal wall. This feels deeper, somehow, then cumming with her clit. A heavy heat that simmers in the marrow of her bones, exacerbated by this magical, marvellous oil, throbbing on and on and _on…_

But – no. She can’t give in.

Have to be good, good for Beau.

Beau’s good girl.

“That’s it – that’s –“ Beau gasps against her neck, pace stuttering. Her hips tremor, losing her rhythm. She fucks Yasha in sharp, shallow jolts as she rides that perfect peak.

“Please, please, Beau, please –“

Begging again, somehow. Tongue clumsy, slurring the words. Heart in her mouth. Tears in her eyes. Pulse in her neck and her nipples and her twitching cunt as Beau finishes with a low, wrecked moan and sinks _in,_ all the way in; the oil-tingle spreading throughout her entire being; and Gods, if she doesn’t let Yasha orgasm _right now_ she’s going to _die_ from it –

“Do it,” Beau says, the order almost lost between her moans. “Cum for me, Yash.”

Finally (finally) Yasha falls.

She _bucks._ Clutching violently down on her, head tipped dizzyingly back. Her heartbeat is thunder. Like the storm has broken free.

This pleasure could shake through her forever: earthquakes breaking against the back of her belly, liquefying her mind. Until her arched spine cramps and her innards quiver. Until the symphony inside her swells to a crescendo, and those white wings unfold over the backs of her eyelids, taking her far, far away.

* * *

Everything _aches._ In a good way. The best one imaginable.

Yasha shuts her mouth. A little drool has leaked out one corner. She wipes it, then starts the marathon task of opening her eyes.

There’s Beau. Mussed loose hair and sleepy blue-crescent eyes. She lies on top of Yasha, head pillowed on her folded arms, which in turn rest on Yasha’s gleaming, oil-smeared chest.

The tingle around her nipples has waned a little. Yasha’s glad. If only because she might’ve cracked in half from the sheer sensation otherwise.

Beau lifts one of her plaits. She uses the pale end to tickle Yasha’s nose. “Hey, sleepy-head.”

Yasha can’t talk. Can’t think. Her body’s relearning itself, piece by piece. She just smiles.

Beau shifts. The slight movement tugs, and – fuck; she’s still buried deep. There’s the scrape of leather straps against Yasha’s inner thighs, the swell at her opening. The solid jut of it inside.

“I was thinking,” says Beau conversationally. She’s dropped a whole octave, like she’s nursing a hangover. “About how you’re more of our cat than Frumpkin. Always wandering, never quite satisfied in any one place…”

“I’m very satisfied in this place,” Yasha manages. The innuendo is fully intentional. Takes a while for it to land – deadpan, and all – but then Beau laughs, bright as the metal punched through her scarred brow.

She’s getting better, Yasha thinks. At this peopling thing.

“So you’ll stay a while?” Beau asks.

“As – as long as I can.” She’s still thrumming, flushed and slick between her legs. Rough sailcloth sticks to the cooling sweat on her back. When Beau starts the withdraw, pulling the flower-swirled dildo out slower than continents calve, Yasha’s toes curl tight against the balls of her feet. She has to chew her tongue so as not to cry out.

Gods, she’s so sensitive. It’s almost unbearable: her body one tender, trembling wound. Cut for Beau, only Beau.

“I – I – I think the Stormlord called me here for a reason. To you. Back to you. This – it’s where I’m meant to be.”

“Mm. In a bed, beneath me?”

“I – I meant more, uh, with the Nein. But. This is good, too.”

Beau strokes the tattoo on her lip. Pulling it down, just a little, to bare her bottom teeth.

“ _So_ good,” she says. The praise strokes every knobble on Yasha’s spine, sinking into her muscles like a full-body massage. She feels herself melt, mouth soft, parting so easily under Beau's thumb. Beau smirks: a predatory flash of her eyeteeth that makes Yasha think all sorts of weird stuff about how, for her, she'd let herself be prey. “Hm. Gimme a minute. I wanna go again.”

Yasha’s legs fall to either side of her, boneless. Her entire _being_ is boneless. She suspects, in fact, that Beau has fucked the bones right out of her. " _Again_?”

“Yup. I have, like, the opposite of whiskey dick right now.”

“Beer… vag…?”

“Literally the worst two words to ever leave your mouth in tandem. But – yeah, let’s go with that. I got beer vag and a cock that only softens at, like, five hundred degrees centigrade. I’m horny…” She rocks against Yasha, parting the seam of her tingling slit. “And you’re, like, _ridiculously_ fucking beautiful. And – who’d’ve thought? I get off on this way more than I expected, for someone who’s not fond of dicks.”

“You and me both,” Yasha manages. Words. Words hard. “Um. I hurt. A bit. Can I, uh. Eat you out? Before you fuck me again?”

Beau’s hips cease their undulations. Her eyes glitter instead, grin pinching the scar that bisects her right cheek. “Do I get to tie you up, first?”

Words _very_ hard.

As evidenced by the fact Yasha seems to have forgotten all of them except “ _Yes._ ”

* * *

Beau winds the rope of her lowered hammock around and around her wrist, under and over and under again. 

“Okay?” she asks.

A memory flares. It’s old, buried, from that unknown time in her life. Yasha can’t place it: only fragmented senses and smells.

Shackles.

Iron.

Blood.

It fades when she looks at Beau. Ephemeral as a faraway storm.

“Okay,” she mumbles. “I – I promise.”

Beau fastens the last restraint. They’re not strong enough to hold her. Tough flax, not enchanted steel. There’s something oddly mellowing about that knowledge.

This is a game. Yasha understands that, now. Or at least, she’s starting to. It’s a wilful pretence of surrender, and all the more exhilarating for it. Because she doesn’t _have_ to struggle, here. She doesn’t _have_ to fight. With Beau –

With Beau she is safe.

Such a foreign thought. Yasha shies from it. She can’t embrace it – not fully, not yet. Can’t shake this fear she’ll wake tomorrow and all this will be gone. That she’ll be chained in a cage and Beau will be on the ground screaming with a glaive through her chest and Yasha won’t be able to save her, won’t be able to stop it, won’t be able to do anything but –

_Run, Orphan Maker._

_Run._

But here? Now? The moment her breathing picks up, that smirk loses its grip on Beau’s features. 

“You sure about this?” she asks, knuckles resting against Yasha’s cheek. “Just say, if you don’t want, if this isn’t –“

Yasha lets the last of the tension drain from her arms. “I want,” she says.

_I want to feel safe again._

_I want to stay by your side._

_I want to love –_

No; Beau told her not to do that. But as she tugs the final knot taut, crawling up to straddle her chest, all bare brown skin and sleek muscle…

Yasha’s afraid she’s found the one order she can’t follow.

* * *

“Y’know,” Beau says later, as she readjusts the straps on their dildo, leather biting bruises into her bronzed, oil-smeared thighs, “I think Molly would be proud of us.”

“Yeah,” says Yasha. Parting her legs for her again (only for her). Thinking of peacock feathers and sanguine eyes, the green triangle on the back of Beau’s neck that makes her own nape burn in sympathy (though she hasn’t the first clue as to why). “Yeah. I think he is.”

* * *

* * *

* * *

“…Have you tried pulling it the other way?”

Beau raises her head from where she’d been yanking the rope with her teeth. They ache up into her skull. Fucking _knots._

“I’ve pulled it _every_ way,” she growls.

They scraped three hours of shut-eye before being woken by the bells. The crew are loading up under Orly’s watch. Half an hour before they lose the tide. Jester’s already knocked once. She won’t be so respectful of their privacy next time.

And _fuck this entire day,_ because Yasha is still tied to the _fucking_ hammock mounts.

Yasha growls right back. Her eyes are bloodshot, purple melding into the red. There’s a dried streak on her chin – spit or slick. She can’t reach to wipe it off, so Beau does it for her. Yasha grinds her jaw she can’t decide whether to give her a bite or a lick. “Just let me break them.”

“For the last time, _no._ ”

Bondage With Barbarians may have been one of Beau’s _less_ incredible ideas. The hammock straps are old backstays, designed to hold an entire sail taut. Which means, for those unversed in ship parlance: _they’re really fucking strong._

Not stronger than Yasha, as she's all too eager to demonstrate. But the cabin walls? First time Yasha gave her bonds a yank, they creaked like they were buckling, bowing dangerously in.

“You want to bring the entire cabin down on us?” Beau demands. The Nein didn’t steal this ship just for them to tear it apart in a sexcapade-gone-wrong.

Yasha scowls. But she hasn’t unfolded her Necrotic Shroud. Morning light seeps through the dusty window, glistening off their dildo. That’s discarded on Yasha’s cloak. Just looking at it douses Beau in warm memories: pinning Yasha’s thigh to her chest, fucking her corkscrewed until they were practically scissoring, clit rubbing clit with her cock hilted deep.

Sun highlights the little book too, propped atop the dresser. The little book full of flowers.

“What do you propose,” Yasha grumbles, in the sort of voice that indicates Beau has a choice between caffeinating her and becoming the next homicide statistic. _So_ not a morning person.

“I could always fetch Orly?”

“What? No! Just get my sword.”

“I can’t _lift_ your sword, Yasha.”

“You work out every morning!”

“It weighs more than my entire _body!_ And yes, I _do_ work out every morning. Which is why I’d much rather be doing that than facing you before you’ve woken up that part of your brain that remembers _murder bad_. So, unless you have any _other_ sharp objects on your person –“

“What about your shuriken?”

“I left them in my cabin! I came here for a booty call, not _amateur bushcraft._ ”

Yasha’s brows furrow. “Are you referring to the knots, or…?” She nods down her body. Her very, _very_ naked body. Pale as a lye, but for that charcoal streak on her lip, the warpaint under her eyes and the black fuzz between her legs, white frosting each curled tip.

Very neatly shaved, Beau can’t help but notice. All up the bikini line.

“The knots,” she says, grabbing Yasha’s trousers before she gets distracted. “Let’s put your clothes on, in case Jester swings by. Then I’ll go find a knife.”

Yasha scowls as Beau wiggles the tight leather up to her waist, using the thigh-slits for grip. She looks all kinds of mutinous. But with one last warning flex of her back muscles (the walls creak, as does Beau’s brain – _Gods,_ she’s gay) the barbarian relents.

Her eyes stray, through her loose, messy tangles of hair, to her book. Beau follows her gaze. “Do you, um. Want that?”

“No. No, it’s – it’s fine.”

Beau nods. Trying to be _understanding._ Trying to be compassionate. Trying to be everything she’s supposed to be, and more besides. “Right,” she says, turning for the door. She’s too tired to force cheer into her voice. “Knife. Please don’t pull the ship apart while I’m gone.”

“Beau – “

“No, no. It’s fine. Like you say. I get it. You have your book and your flower-thing and your mysterious past, and it’s all absolutely _fine –_ “

“ _Beau_.” When she glances back, grudgingly, she finds Yasha rolling sensation into her stiff shoulders, glaring with red-rimmed eyes. “Get me untied. Then I’ll tell you about it. About her.”

“…What?”

“It’s not a pretty story. But you deserve to know. And…” Yasha’s mouth goes a bit crumply. She breaks Beau’s gaze. “Some things are better, shared.”

Beau can picture it. Molly, curled on Yasha’s lap, flower book open on his. How Yasha would speak so softly to him, let him stroke each dry-pressed bloom.

“I don’t want a pretty story,” she says. Mutters, really. Because she can fuck Yasha stupid all night, make her cry out like she’s found a new deity deserving of her worship. But heaven forbid they talk about their _feelings._ “I just want _you_ , idiot.”

She hurries out of the cabin before Yasha can reply.

Sometimes you tie knots too loose. Other times, too tight. It takes work to find a balance. 

Beau thinks she might suffer through a thousand of Orly’s lessons, if Yasha was willing to learn beside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for every comment! Please-please-please leave comments and kudos. It means the world to know people actually enjoy this fic!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So apparently the last episode gave people FEELINGS! I haven't watched it yet, but have some more! Fisting and feelings. That's literally it.
> 
> **BIG WARNINGS for suicidal ideation, discussion of Obann-related trauma, etc.**

Beau should be used to this.

Yasha fucks off on her own adventures like she has a monthly quota to fill. Her absence ought to be a blindspot: that blur you only notice when you shut one eye and lean towards a focal point, a gap filled on the sly by your brain.

Except this time, she’s, yanno. Actively trying to murder the Nein.

So, that’s fun.

Days stretch into weeks, moon-cycles, more. Beau _tries_ to distract herself. She hurls herself into missions with the fervour of an acolyte half her age. She rekindles her contact with Dairon, even lets Jester stick her (gag) in a _dress._

Plus. Well – her whole fling with Raeni. An Aasamir who likes flowers and getting fucked hard into the mattress. Yeah, Beau isn’t projecting _anything_ onto that one-night stand.

None of it changes how she listens for thunder every night.

Then –

Then they reach the cathedral.

And the thunder replies.

A Gothic black spire blots stars from the sky. Bells peal, sonorous, shaking all of Beau’s soft tissues. Moonshine bleeds through stained glass.

The hideous chuckles of the Laughing Hand. Obann, flying up into the vaulted ceiling. Yasha, sword wet as her face, like she might dilute all this blood if she can only shed enough tears –

Yasha, Skingorger upraised.

Grin manic, eyes a horrified contrast. Beau thought her strength was awesome before. Turns out it’s terrifying when she charges at you. She’s a juggernaut, an oncoming storm. Nothing Beau can do. Can’t evade, can’t deflect. Can’t even parry the swing of that rust-dripping blade–

_Shhhlk._

Agony.

Yasha, standing over her.

She’s the last thing Beau sees. Crying, crying, as she drives Skingorger down. Pinning Beau to stone slabs like a butterfly to a board. Shearing organs, spine, life.

Tears splash her cheeks, hot as arterial spray. Yasha’s ghastly smile falters – or perhaps that’s Beau’s greying vision. When she fades, she takes the world with her.

* * *

But the world comes back.

The light comes back.

And so (as always) does Yasha.

* * *

The corners of her eyes leak quicksilver. Like she’s been crying for so long she can’t remember how to stop. She hunches over Beau, glowing hands clamped to her core. Sealing her up, making her whole again. Holding her together. Shaking, all the while.

“I’m sorry,” she starts.

“You don’t have to be.” Beau wipes coughed-up blood and other miscellaneous internal bits (so _slimy;_ gross, ew) from her chin. “Nothing to apologise for.”

Yasha doesn’t meet her eyes. Her crazed grin is long gone. Beau would be glad, if the blankness in its place didn’t scare her a thousand times more.

* * *

Beau listens for thunder again that night. She doesn’t know why. It’s over. Yasha ripped off Obann’s wings. The Caedogeist battered his punished carcass back into the Abyss. There’s a neatness to this: a fiend slain by those he enslaved. Smells a lot like poetic justice. The sort of story bards turn into songs.

The thunder never comes. Beau hears only her heartbeat, loud as church bells. Tolling against the inside of her skull.

Jester sprawls over the other bunk, face buried in her pillow like she’s trying to smother herself. Beau isn’t cruel enough to wake her. There’s an easy option here. Chances are, Yasha won’t want to be alone either – and Beau highly doubts she’s sleeping.

It would be so easy, to stand. To tiptoe over the floorboards of their fancy new inn (dodging all the creakers) and knock on her door.

Beau runs those motions through her head. She runs them through her head thirty-three times. But whenever she tries to actually _perform them,_ to swing her legs out from her duvet –

_Skingorger, red with rust._

_Catching her belly._

_Spilling her entrails, like offal on a temple altar for the priests to burn –_

Beau shudders. She bundles herself in blankets, huddling small. When she shuts her eyes, the silence presses too tight, a shrunken second skin.

* * *

She dreams of the past. A rocking ship. Salt-sharp breeze. A pile of hammock ropes, sawn and frayed.

_Her name was Zuala._

Yasha held the leatherbound book on her lap. She peeled it open, careful as if she were slicing a pane of glass.

The page was stained, pigment leached from a crushed pansy. Opposite lay a four-leafed clover, ironed just as flat, just as dry. Both preserved like mummified things, buried a thousand years in sand.

Strange, thought Beau. How death could be so beautiful.

 _She was my wife,_ Yasha told her. She lifted the clover, so the thin reed of light from the dusty window highlighted every vein. _I chose her and she chose me – but she was not the partner the Skyspear, the leader of our tribe, intended for me._

Zuala. Beau rolled the name around her mouth, tasting its shape.

 _What happened?_ she asked, though she already knew.

_They killed her for it._

Because the world was cruel, but people would always be crueller. Beau’s heart constricted. She sunk down beside Yasha, unsure whether her touch was desired. Offering it anyway. Yasha didn’t pull away when Beau leant their shoulders together, so she tangled their fingers, too. Holding her, as she held that fragile stem. Tucking her fingers against the broad rough of her palm.

_I’m so sorry, Yasha._

Yasha laid the clover back in the crease of the pages. She shut the book, freeing herself to squeeze Beau’s hand.

_So am I._

* * *

Beau wakes the next morning. Her hand rests on the pillow beside her, as empty as it’s cold.

* * *

So, yeah. All in all? The Nein are in dire need of R&R.

It’s only _natural_ they turn to pit-fighting. Harmless fun, right? Light entertainment. They need to recall the rhythm of violence, to enjoy the burst of blood across their knuckles again.

Beau just didn’t expect her opponent to be a _grandpa_.

Any qualms about beating on old Pop-Pop disintegrate after he lands a hook on her jaw. Lucky strike, as it turns out. The fight’s over in minutes. Boring, really. Not enough to pump Beau’s adrenaline.

Yasha’s bout, though? That has Beau’s heart racing triple-time. What is she thinking? What the _fuck_ is she thinking?

As soon as Beau steps into the butchery’s backroom, the medic hightails. She must be glaring something fierce. Beau rearranges her features into an expression more… well, not jovial. But less overtly _‘so you were maybe mind-fucked by a demon for several months and there is obviously deep trauma here that you are dealing with through self-destructive means and I have zero clue how to handle that and please stop this, Yasha, you’re freaking me out’._

A smile? Yeah, she tries for a smile.

“Hey, Yash? How you doing down there?”

Yasha smiles too. It doesn’t reassure Beau in the _slightest._

“I’m good.”

Bullcrap. Her face is beaten to _shit._ The rest of her fares little better. Bruises blacken, distorting the sharp lines of her jaw. Her eyes are puffing up, her nose has a new kink, she’s coughed blood all down her front, she’s lying on the filthy floor of a Rexxentrum meat-packing room, and she’s _still._

_Fucking._

_Smiling._

Nothing like the manic grin Obann made her wear. Oh no: this is small and sweet. Fuck, it’s borderline _angelic._ And it’s horribly, awfully _at peace_.

 _You’re not good,_ Beau wants to shout. Like she wants to say _please, just talk to me,_ and _I was so worried,_ and _I listened for thunder every night,_ and _it’d just be nice, y’know, if the universe quit traumatising my barbarian._

“Okay,” she says, instead. She reaches down, clasping Yasha’s hands. Digging her heels in for leverage, she starts heaving her to her feet. “Let’s get you out of here, champ.”

Yasha’s heavy. Heavier, with Obann’s armour locked around her ribs. It takes all of the Nein to help her stagger out of the butchery, swapping out in shifts so they each bear the brunt of her weight. This sector of Rexxentrum is ugly as her match against the Champion. A bloated slum, all damp-warped terraces and dark, bleeding alleys. The air ripens with rot and raw sewage, the stink so thick Beau can taste it – an experience as pleasant as it sounds.

No one seems inclined to talking. Except Caleb, who touches Yasha’s shoulder, whispers that he understands.

Beau suspects she wasn’t supposed to hear. Stupid passive perception.

She jams her hands deeper in her coat’s fur-lined pockets, balancing along the edge of the gutter, above the foaming slew. Eventually, the Mud Ward’s waste drains from open gullies to grill-capped pipes, far from sight and further from mind. The road beneath their feet turns from churned dirt to stone. By the time Caduceus piles Yasha’s limp, huge arm over Beau’s shoulders, they’re within view of their inn.

It looks uncomfortably shiny, compared to the foul streets they just left. Like a cut-out drawing pasted over reality. How far the Nein have risen in the world.

That thought needles at Beau. Ridiculous, how a place like this can make her – a Lionett, born to wealth – feel less at home than the abattoir that preceded it.

Hard to dwell on such quandaries with Yasha so close. Her heat sinks through Beau’s pores. Her scent is less storm tonight than sweat. Obann’s spiked breastplate digs into Beau’s armpit. One misplaced step will see her impaled.

That breastplate is very Vintage Villain Aesthetic. Aurochs horns curl up around Yasha’s head like she’s being crushed between the fangs of a gargantuan orc. Doesn’t suit her at all. Beau’s not just saying that because she preferred her old outfit, with that cleavage-flashing corset and black straps across her bust.

Why hasn’t Yasha taken his armour off? Then smashed it to smithereens, swept those smithereens up and shaken them out into the nearest furnace pit? Sounds pretty fucking therapeutic, if you ask Beau. Better than drifting around like she’s still under a charm.

Better than letting another barbarian beat her unconscious in front of a crowd, without ever once hitting back.

The Nein retreat to their beds. No afterparty. Sleep is the easiest escape from everything that swells unspoken between them – swells like the knuckle-prints on Yasha’s jaw. But as Beau sprawls over her bed, glaring at the shadowed ceiling, she knows that same sleep won’t come.

Leftover adrenaline boils up from her belly, bubbles bursting against the underside of her skull. Fuck this. She might not know what’s going on in Yasha’s head. But she knows how to undo the clasps on her armour. How to slip the straps through the buckles, peel steel from snowy flesh.

Beau glares at the ceiling a minute longer. Then she kicks off her blankets. She pads out of her room, skulks across the hallway, and raps three times sharp on Yasha’s door.

No reply.

Beau waits a minute, just in case. Then another. Shoulders slumping, heart following. Something brittle cracking in her chest.

After that night on the _Ball Eater_ when Yasha opened her book of flowers and so much more besides, the Nein ventured into Dynasty territory. They tromped across the Xhorhasian wildlands, fighting Rocs and exploring ancient tortoise shells. And Yasha and Beau curled beneath their furs together. Every single night.

Not just to fuck, while whoever was on watch feigned immense interest in the camp’s far side. Not to share warmth either, though that made for a convenient excuse.

Beau loves screwing about with Yasha. Course she does. It’s addictive: slipping fingers and tongue into her, playing her body till she begs; then pushing her to her knees and ordering her to return the favour, Beau’s hand fisted tight in her hair. It never won’t be thrilling, how someone so powerful makes the most precious noises when Beau keeps stroking her clit after she’s cum.

More precious still is the sense that developed, over the course of their journey to Rosohna, that for once (just once) the person by Beau’s side wouldn’t leave.

They always do though. In the end.

And just because Yasha never _wanted_ to betray them, that doesn’t stop it hurting.

Beau wants to explain this. She wants to explain _everything_. She wants to blurt out all those questions that rattle between her ears like old bones: _What would you have done, if you killed me? To us, to yourself?_

But in order for her to say anything, Yasha has to open the goddamn door.

* * *

Jester wakes when Beau creaks back to bed, too exhausted for stealth.

“Oh, Beau,” she whispers. She flips up the corner of her eiderdown, letting Beau crawl beneath. Her body is soft as the pillows. Beau curls into her like a cat.

Jester strokes her hair until Beau falls asleep, head tucked under her round blue chin. She doesn’t complain about the tear stains on her pillow the next morning. Or at least, she lets Beau blame them on drool without making an Insight Check.

* * *

Breakfast is… awkward. That’s putting it mildly. That’s like saying volcanoes are a little toasty; and Gods can, on occasion, be fickle; and Beau’s dad is only a moderate-sized bag of dicks. Breakfast is awkward in the same way the Rosohna skies are the eternal indigo of midnight. As awkward as the seas are choppy, and the Abyss cold. 

The Nein sit around the tavern’s main table (except Caduceus, who ambles into the kitchen to ensure his dead-people tea gets brewed to his exacting specifications). Everything is quiet and still, no danger on the horizon. Yet the air around them solidifies, difficult to breathe.

Yasha’s stormclouds have followed them indoors. They hang above all the Nein’s heads. Or at least, Beau _would_ blame this itchy pressure in the air on stormclouds, except she hasn’t heard thunder since they freed Yasha at the cathedral.

She wonders how Yasha feels about that.

She wonders how the fuck she’s supposed to ask.

“Soooo,” says Fjord. He shoots everyone a broad, bright, and utterly baloney grin. “Sleep well? Caleb? Nott? Um. Yasha?”

“Perfectly,” says Caleb, rubbing the bags under his eyes.

Nott perches on the table like a gargoyle. She keeps watch on Yasha from the corner of one sulphur-yellow eye. “As well as can be expected.”

Yasha stirs her oatmeal with a spoon that looks too small for her hands. “I'm okay,” she says, distantly. 

Beau’s scar twinges. She grinds her fist against it, under the table, until she unclenches enough to swallow her mouthful. The porridge tastes of greyness and milk. It leaves a slime trail in her throat, all the way down.

“Great!” says Fjord, when it becomes apparent Yasha won’t elaborate. “Well – that’s just _great!_ Sleep’s so important, you know, for – well, everything!”

Beau mashes her heel into his foot under the table.

“Ow-ow-ow! Okay, okay! Forgive me for trying to lighten the mood!”

Nott swigs from her flask. She belches, wipes her mouth, and treats their group to a bloodshot glower. “Yeah, well. Consider the mood still dark. Seriously, do we need to stage an intervention?”

“Says the person who’s drinking _,_ ” Fjord points out. He glares at Beau, flexing his toes. She pulls a face at him. Weakling.

“I am perfectly in control of my alcohol consumption, and this isn’t about me. Don’t deflect.”

“Perhaps we _should_ talk about you.” Jester swipes for the flask, almost dipping her sleeve in her fruit-topped oatmeal when Nott yanks it out of reach. “I mean, at breakfast? That’s not very healthy, Nott.”

“Haha!” Nott skitters over the table to hide behind Caleb. “It doesn’t count as early-morning drinking if I never stopped from the night before!”

“Actually,” says Caleb, turning the page on a new Dunamancy spellbook (a present from Essek, because heaven forbid that floaty nerd give out _flowers and chocolate_ like a normal person), “I do believe that makes it worse.”

“At least my self-destruction will only affect my liver in another ten years! We had to waste a healing spell on Yasha because she wanted to get beaten up. That’s wasteful!”

Fuck it. Beau grabs Nott’s arm. Yanks her back across the table. The goblin treads – “Oh, seriously? Yuck.” – through Caleb’s bowl on the way.

“Guys, please,” calls Caduceus, from the kitchen. “Don’t play with your food.”

Beau scarcely hears. She has eyes only for Nott. She pushes off her chair, looming over her. Snarling in her ugly, saw-toothed face: “Would it kill you to have some fucking _empathy –_ “

“Beau.”

Yasha addresses her breakfast more than her. Beau paralyses like she's been jabbed full of spider-venom.

“It’s okay,” Yasha says. She picks up a spoonful of oatmeal and lets it drop back into the bowl. _Splot._ “Nott’s right.” _Splot._ “It was wasteful.”

“There, see?” Nott wiggles from Beau’s grip. “So, you’re not allowed to do that, Yasha. Never again. You understand?”

The hidden plea grates Beau’s ears. She sits slowly, folding her arms. Perhaps Nott has more empathy than she lets on.

Caduceus rejoins them. He sets his cup down in his customary place beside Yasha. He moved up when she left – better than leaving a gap. But like hell will anyone mention it. He sprinkles a few of his pocket herbs onto Yasha’s remaining oat-gloop. Probably made from someone they murdered. Yasha doesn’t ask, and Caduceus smiles when she grudgingly starts eating again, mechanical, raising her spoon to her lips until it scrapes the bowl.

“Interventions shouldn’t be done on an empty stomach,” he says, in that deep, growly voice that reminds Beau of happy moorbounders. “Neither should drinking. Nott – don’t let yours go cold.”

Nott grumbles. But with a last sneer at Beau, she grabs her own bowl and slouches by Caleb, wiping her mucky foot on the tablecloth.

Conversation wells slowly. Jester asks Fjord whether he intends to see Darrow again, and if all his recent training is to get ready for a rematch. Nott loudly pontificates over whether the butchery medics were able to regrow poor old Pop-Pop’s teeth. Beau ignores her. She keeps her focus on the far side of the table, as Caduceus blows steam off his tea and leans a little closer to Yasha.

“Did you find it?” he asks, under his breath. “The punishment you were looking for?”

Yasha stares into the dregs of her porridge like they might reveal her fortune. “No.”

Caduceeus hums to himself, soft as his bees. When he finishes and stands to leave – something about hitting a few shops before they split town – Yasha scoots back her chair. She trails after him, eyes empty as her bowl. All of her scooped out and devoured.

“So, we’re agreed she’s _most likely_ not evil now?” asks Fjord, as the door swings shut.

Beau mashes her heel into his foot until something goes _crack._

* * *

Two days later (after Jester burns another potion on whingey baby _you-actually-broke-my-foot-Beau,-how-do-you-expect-me-to-get-up-at-6am-to-workout-now_ Fjord) they swing by the carver’s shop to pick up Caduceus’s bone flute and Yasha’s harp. They’re beautiful commissions, though Beau retracts her opinion after hearing the noise Cad ekes from his. She could spend an eternity studying them, deciphering the peculiar blend of spellcraft and artisanship that weaves bones like plaited hair.

She could spend another small eternity watching Yasha.

She doesn’t play immediately. Just strokes the curved spine of her instrument, following the lumps of each conjoined vertebrae. When she ventures to the strings, plucking light as a bird, the eerie, crystalline tone reminds Beau far too much of Celestial.

“Orphan Maker!” crows Jester, as Yasha tentatively picks out a scale. “Frontlining for TravelerCon, 2K21!”

Yasha cringes at her old name. But then her shoulders relax, and she strums the scale again. That tranquil smile creeps onto her face. This time, it’s not spattered in blood.

Beau tries to emulate. This is progress. She’s happy for her friend. Happy that, after all she’s suffered, Yasha can find some measure of peace.

* * *

Nott lays out a strict itinerary. The Nein have one last night in Rexxentrum before they report back to the Bright Queen, and they intend to enjoy it. They’ve earned this, thinks Beau as they disrobe. Not the jasmine-scented steam of the spa. Not the promised hours of pampering and pumice-scraping. Just… downtime. All of the Nein together, in a bathhouse as well as in battle.

Beau’s thoughts on the subject of family stray towards the unsavoury (she thinks again of the letter from her mother, of her unknown little brother, and every conflicting lance of envy and pity and unwarranted fondness that skewers her chest). But the ease of her life with the Nein… There aren’t any other words in Common to describe it.

It’s nice, in a way. To imagine that family is a choice.

Yasha brings her book. Not the flower one: this is the tome Fjord leant her, which she spends every hour buried in when she isn’t practicing on her harp or getting herself battered to mincemeat in underground bare-knuckle boxing rings.

“Won’t it get wrinkly?” Jester enquires, wriggling headfirst from her tabard, “with the steam?”

Fjord folds his pants to a military crease. “Magical volumes are hardier than most. Right, Caleb? Not that Yasha should go dropping it in the water for funsies.”

Yasha looks shocked he would suggest such a thing. “I’ll try not to.”

“Good,” whispers Jester in Beau’s ear as she strips, bundling her clothes into the locker with none of Fjord’s care. “Because the magic-y bits might not run, but all the porn I wrote in there will.”

“Caleb,” Yasha asks from behind. “Is ‘bukakke’ a form of dunamancy?”

Nott sniggers. “He’d have to ask Essek.”

She takes Caleb’s hand, dragging him through the wood panel doors before he can sputter out a protest. Beau, Jester, and Yasha remain.

“C’mon,” says Beau. She clears her throat – blasted _steam_. “We paid for the whole evening. Let’s get our money’s worth.”

Jester glances between them. Usually, she’d make herself comfortable on the nearest bench and demand a private show. But travelling with the Nein has changed them all for the better. In Jester’s case, she’s grown a bone of decency. A very, _very_ small bone, no larger than the hammers and stirrups that vibrate in the ears – but it’s there. She skips through the spa door after Fjord, tail practically wagging. “See you inside, then!”

“Be right out.” Beau glances at Yasha. She’s still in her armour. Beau can’t help but think of an insect, wrapped in its carapace. As if whatever’s underneath is too vulnerable to bare. “Hey. Don’t think they’ll let you wear that in the jacuzzi.”

Yasha gnaws her lip. Her new warpaint slathers her entire forehead. Beau wonders if it’ll rinse off underwater. Or if it was formulated from an ink that wouldn’t run when she cries. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll take it off.”

She proceeds to Not Do That. Just… staring at the wall.

Beau sighs. She steps up beside her. “Here.” A tug at the left-most buckle, tucked under Yasha’s arm. “I’ll help.”

Yasha tenses. Eyes vacant, like she’s disassociating right out of Xhorhas. But when Beau stays where she is (initiating contact; because how often have any of them done that, since they peeled Yasha off the butchery floor?) she deflates. Granting Beau the tiniest nod.

Beau sets to work. Yasha tackles the other buckle, easing the leather free of the sharp metal teeth. The motions come easier, once she gets started. By the end she’s scrabbling at the straps like she wants to snap them with her bare hands. Together, they free her from her steel sarcophagus. The entire curved plate cracks away. Beau _oofs_ at its weight. She narrowly avoids gouging Yasha’s eye on one of the giant horns and drops it to clatter on the tiles.

“There,” she says, patting Yasha’s shoulder. “Way easier to breathe in all this steam.”

Yasha doesn’t seem to be. Breathing, that is.

She sways on her feet. Not looking at the armour. Not looking at Beau. Not really looking at anything. Her knuckles clench bloodless around her book.

Beau steps closer. “Yash? You doing okay?”

Yasha sucks a breath. Too tight, too sharp. The sort of noise people make before they start crying.

Beau can’t bear it. She cradles her face, tilts her up to the light. Gazing into Yasha’s watery, mismatched eyes until they focus on her, only her.

A hundred nights spent imagining every detail of her irises, every turquoise-purple fleck. Nothing compares to the reality. Just as nothing – _nobody,_ not all the Kegs and Raenis and Toris of the world – compares to the soft noise Yasha makes when Beau leans up on her tiptoes and brushes their lips.

Mad, she knows. Ridiculous. Kisses don’t solve _shit._

But she needs to do _something_. Needs to _say_ something, with actions if not words. A _sorry,_ a _please,_ an _I swear we still want you._

Yasha stands still as the bloody angel statues in the Hand’s tomb. Not pushing Beau away, but sure as hell not drawing her closer.

Beau backs off. She sinks off her tiptoes, shoulders slumping. Aching like she’s been run through, all over again.

“Y’know,” she says, aiming for blasé and falling a few thousand leagues short, “if this isn’t okay, just say so. It’s cool. Honestly.”

“I – no. It’s okay.” Yasha squares her shoulders. “You can keep, uh. Doing that. If you want.”

Hardly. Beau fucked this up. Just like she’s been afraid of, ever since Yasha returned. A part of her wants to flee into the spa, hide her humiliated flush in the steam. It’s outweighed by the sinking sense in her guts, like she ate something her monkly resistance to poisons can’t overcome. If she lets Yasha out of her sight, will she find her back in the butchery basement? Taunting the Champion with whispers and slaps?

“Don’t hurt yourself again,” she says. “Please.”

The guilt in Yasha’s eyes is all the evidence Beau needs. “I – “

“ _Please_. For me, Yasha. Don’t make me lose you.” So cruel, to manipulate another person’s feelings for you. But Beau can be cruel, if it’ll keep Yasha safe.

Yasha’s expression dulls. She ducks away, mumbles _yes._

 _Do this for yourself,_ Beau wants to hiss. _Not because you don’t want to upset me._ But if Yasha isn’t ready to care about herself ( _Gods,_ what a terrifying prospect; it makes Beau want to burn down the world)… Maybe this is somewhere to start.

They stand there a moment. So close, but kingdoms apart.

Then Yasha reaches out.

It takes everything in Beau’s power not to jump. Her mind retches, regurgitating blood on rusted blades, moonlight through stained glass. But Yasha aborts the touch herself. Her fingertips hover _so close_ to the scar on Beau’s abdomen that her muscles twitch, sensing her warmth.

Beau licks her lips. “You know,” she says, when Yasha stays _right there_. Hand outstretched, head bowed. Face hidden behind matts and plaits and curls. “I don’t blame you.”

She should’ve said this from the start. Should’ve swallowed this lump in her throat, this lingering, malignant _fear;_ and _told_ her. Face to face, word for word.

Maybe Yasha isn’t the only one who’s been shutting doors.

Yasha’s fingers curl into her palm. No contact made. “Yeah,” she whispers. “Yeah, I know.”

She finishes stripping in silence, then wraps a towel around herself before heading into the spa. It covers a wholly insubstantial amount of thigh. Beau isn’t distracted, which speaks far more to the severity of the situation than all her internal debates thus far. 

Steam coils around Yasha. Beau tugs the inside of her cheek between her molars. Then slopes after her, freeing her hair from its top-knot, finger-combing out the dark snarls.

* * *

The sauna becomes Beau’s residence for the next hour. She sits there as long as she can bear it. Past when Caduceus and Caleb – and even Jester, who’s _heat-resistant –_ plead Uncle, heading back to the pools.

Sweat drizzles from her shoulders. Slithers down her calves. Every inhale burns: hot and prickly like mouthfuls of desert sand. Worth it, though, because each _exhale_ empties her, smooth as meditation.

She tries that for a while: criss-cross applesauce on the highest, hottest bench, wooden slats stamping her bare backside. Eyes shut, back a ramrod. Meditation is about letting go. Of reminding oneself of one’s own insignificance. No wonder Beau detested it during her training years. She never liked the sense of being small.

Still, there’s a peace here, albeit a grudging one. Beau sinks into it. The heat grows and grows, until her head throbs to the beat of her heart and everything wobbles like she’s underwater. She’s searching for something: legs folded into the lotus, eyes roving feverish behind their lids. She doesn’t find it. She doesn’t even know what it might be.

Finally, when she can no longer distance herself from her boiling body, Beau rises. She totters out on shaky legs. Her cannonball into the pool sends a tsunami of chilly water crashing over Fjord. Cold punches her system. A knock-out blow, a reset, a recalibration. Not what she needs, but close.

Several screeches and a coordinated attempt to drown her later, Beau dunks Fjord in the drink again before swimming to the far edge of the pool and sinking chin-deep. Her shivers abate. Doesn’t take long for her body to adjust to the temperature drop. Warmth flares inside her like she swallowed a coal.

It flares brighter, when she looks at Yasha.

She curls in one of the mudbaths. The five olivine green basins, set into an alcove on the far side of the pool, clearly weren’t designed for people of her size. Her knees poke her chest. Still, there’s a rare looseness to her posture. Spine curved, hair piled up in a towel-turban. Nose buried in her book.

She gets a tiny concentration-crease between her eyebrows when she focuses. The sight turns everything in Beau’s chest to lambswool.

Beau sinks a little lower. Blowing bubbles through her nose.

Fuck this. She meant what she said. She can’t lose her friend, not again.

So what, if she doesn’t know how to help? So what, if she’s not an expert in trauma of the _months-of-mind-control_ variety? Beau never requires a plan of action before dashing into battle. Why would she need one now?

There _is_ no right path ahead. She might push Yasha further away. She might balls up irrevocably. But when someone you… _kinda care about_ is hurting, you gotta take a leap of faith.

So Beau’s heard, anyway. She’s still new to this ‘giving a damn’ shtick.

Tonight, she decides. Sculling to the shallows, where she can sit underwater and chew the steam-softened cuticle off her thumb. Tonight, she goes to Yasha’s door again. And if there’s no reply, she sleeps there until morning.

Yasha wants to drift away from the Nein? She wants to leave them – her family – again?

She’d better be ready for Beau to give chase.

* * *

They tramp into the Bright Queen’s palace, cosy in their bathrobes. Except Fjord, who’s so _very_ smug about his state of dress – until Caleb spells him into a fetching fluffy number that barely covers his bright green arse. His offended squawks echo through the tunnel system, heralding the Nein’s return.

Beau flexes her back. She cracks it out, down into her lumbar vertebrae. _Ioun_ , she feels _magnificent._ Stardust moulded to human form. Between the masseuse and the warm water and the hiss and clatter of the sauna, every ounce of tension has been pummelled from her being.

Jester trots alongside her, arms stacked high with looted towels. Beau shoots her a grin. “You realise we’re, like, disgustingly rich?”

“Yep!”

“And you realise we could buy all of these out of pocket for like, half a gold?”

“Yep!”

“And you’re stealing them anyway?”

“Yep!”

Beau pats her back, careful not to overbalance her. “That’s my girl.”

Yasha takes the rear of their party. Jester must be a corrupting influence, because she’s nicked a pair of fluffy slippers, largest size. After an attempt at walk-reading – like Beau used to, at the monastery – she picks herself up from where she tripped and sheepishly shuts her book, one finger tucked against the spine to keep her page.

When she catches Beau looking, she averts her gaze, so quick it can only be reflex. Then peeps back, tucking a black-to-white curl behind her ear. Not with that smile from the butchery. But with a twitch at the corner of her mouth, like she’s trying.

* * *

The Nein return to the Xhorhouse that evening. It’s the closest to a homecoming Beau’s known. So strange, to walk back into a place and have it feel like she’s filling a hole cut to her shape _._ To know, in her bones, this is where she belongs.

They eat. They retire. And Beau goes to Yasha’s room.

Her skin still feels soft and spongey. Her mind too, like she soaked up all that scented spa-water. Beau isn’t familiar enough with this emotion to stick a pin in it with any surety, but she suspects it might be hope.

 _Stand tall,_ she reminds herself. _Raise fist. Knock._

Three basic actions. Beau can do this. She can do this.

And – scar aching, molars grinding – she does.

_Rat-tat-tat._

The door doesn’t open. But a voice floats from inside: “It’s not locked.”

Sure enough, Beau discovers, pushing inwards, it’s not. Perhaps it never was. Still, Beau’s glad that last time, she didn’t try the handle. It feels important to wait for Yasha’s invitation. Always, but especially after Obann.

Yasha sits on the far edge of the bed, chin propped on her hands. She gazes – not out the window, where the faintest hint of storm clouds tickle the horizon, but at the flowers Jester painted on her wall. A pleasanter version of reality.

Beau waits for her to say something. There’s only the steady cadence of her breath.

Eventually, she shuts the door and pads over to join her. She means to park herself a respectful inch away, but her arse slides into the dent in the mattress dug by Yasha’s weight. Their thighs nudge. It feels like a victory when Yasha doesn’t flinch.

“Found the dick yet?”

“Working on it.”

“Mm.”

More silence. Yasha doesn’t ask what Beau wants, which is good, because Beau isn’t sure. Her leg starts to jig, but she pinches it until it stops.

“Did you finish your book?”

“Yeah.” Yasha stretches her arms like she’s stiff from a fight: deltoids, biceps, tris’. Then her thighs too, tucking one leg under her and leaning forward to hit that glute. Just Beau’s imagination, or does she look a little thicker than before? Which, um. Unf? Has she been working out on the sly? “Might have to reread the last chapter come morning. Got so tired I could barely focus on the words.”

Beau frowns. The dark under Yasha’s eyes isn’t the usual overabundance of eyeshadow. Just… _dark_. Bruise-like, as if she hunted down the Champion, egged her into pummelling her again. She wouldn’t, Beau knows. Not after she promised. But there are plenty more ways to self-destruct.

“Why don’t you sleep? You’ve taken a couple points of exhaustion from reading, right?”

Yasha knuckles her puffy eyelids. She goes right back to saying nothing at all.

Screw this. Beau grabs her hand, squeezes tight. “Yasha. Yash, look at me.” She waits until she does so. “You – you need to look after yourself. I don’t know if you think you don’t _deserve_ to be happy, after everything, or what. But that – what he did, with your body? It wasn’t you. All of us _know_ it wasn’t you – “

Except, perhaps, Nott. But beneath her veneer of suspicion, Beau knows the goblin doesn’t want Yasha to suffer. None of them do.

“We don’t blame you,” she finishes. “We’re just waiting for you to stop blaming yourself.”

Yasha’s gulp bobs down her pale throat. “I – it’s not that. Not quite. I mean, it is _partially_ that, but – “

Beau pushes their foreheads together. The navy warpaint is tacky. Hopefully Yasha scrapes it off now and then, or she’ll be looking at some nasty zits. But it’s nice, in a way, how her skin adheres to Beau’s own. As if, when she pulls back, there might be a smudge of each left on the other.

“So _tell me._ " Her eyes are real bloodshot, up close. Red like she's raging. "I – I want to be there for you. We all do. But even when you’re here, even when you’re with us, it feels like you’re a million miles away. Talk to me _.”_

“I – I –“

Beau presses her thumbs into Yasha’s temples. As if it were so easy, to crack through and see everything swimming beneath. “ _Please._ ”

Yasha pulls back. She sucks in another juddery breath. When she speaks, Beau has to strain to hear: “Beau, I don’t feel _safe_.”

Fuck. It’s like she sunk that sword into Beau’s sternum, all over again.

“Oh, Yasha…”

“Not anywhere. Not anymore.” She draws her legs up, hugging them to her chest. “I. I don’t sleep, because when I sleep I dream and when I dream he is there and all of you are dead by my hand and there is nothing to do but give into him, nothing left to live for. And the dream is so _real_ and sometimes I don’t know if when I’m awake here, I’m asleep there. I. Caduceus, he tore him out of my head. He’s gone. I know it. I feel it. But – but _I keep putting him back,_ Beau. And I. I don’t know how – I don’t know if I can stop.”

The confession spills out of her until there’s no more air left to continue it. Leaving Yasha trembling, glaring at her own fists. Beau doesn’t know how to handle this. She just follows her gut – which tells her to lift one big, pale hand and flatten it on her belly.

Right over the scar.

“I survived,” she says, soft as a bond-oath. “I’m alive, Yasha. You didn’t kill me. You could never kill me. Even when he used you as his weapon, you were crying for me. You were fighting to save me, to save all of us, to save _yourself._ I know it. I know you never gave up.”

“I wish I was as strong as you think I am. I wish – “

“You _are._ ”

Yasha’s shoulders keep shaking. Beau fantasizes so much about crumbling her walls, but not like this (never like this). What she wants – to build a place for Yasha, where she can trust Beau with all of her? Where Yasha can trust herself enough to let go? That’s beautiful. There’s no bond deeper, no honour more.

This is just _pain._ Raw and vicious.

Beau isn’t in control. She doesn’t have the power to make it stop. And she hates it; fucking _hates_ it.

“I run, Beau. All I do is run. I’m a coward –“

“No. No.” Beau squeezes her hand. She keeps it pressed to her scar as it swells and shrinks with every breath. “You’re a _survivor_ , Yasha. And you’ve survived so much, and I think – I think the world owes it to you, just to _exist_ for a bit. To figure things out. Wouldn’t you say the same, if I was in your place?”

Yasha could pull away. She has the strength for it. But she doesn’t. That means something; it has to.

“The Nein are here for you,” Beau continues. She rubs small circles over Yasha’s knuckles. “You don’t have to be fixed right away. You don’t have to _ever_ be fixed. You just have to know that we’re not going to desert you.” She sucks a deep breath. Jester took it upon herself to say this, before they entered the Laughing Hand’s tomb. It comes so _easy_ to her, such outspills of affection. Beau struggles. Still, she braces herself, forcing each word through her teeth: “We’re your family, Yasha. And we love you so, _so_ much.”

Yasha sniffs. Yeah, yeah. Maybe Beau’s a bit choked up, too.

She shuts her mouth after that. Letting Yasha twist away, bury her head against her knees. Then, once her snivels fade, once she clears her throat and hiccoughs and wipes her face and straightens her spine like she's stacking each vertebral disc (rebuilding herself, mortar and stone) –

Yasha leans closer.

She pauses. So near, the inch between them warm with breath. She chews her striped lip, wet, red-threaded eyes boring Beau through. Asking a silent question.

Beau dampens her lips. “We do love you,” she whispers. “We really do.”

Love. It’s stupid and short-sighted and a surefire way to get yourself hurt. Yasha is worth it, anyway.

All the Nein agree on that. Family. Like Beau said. Which makes her and Yasha... family with benefits?

Ugh, no, that sounds yucky. Whatever. They'll figure it out as they go.

Yasha manages a wobble of a smile. She angles in, shutting her eyes. Letting Beau guide her, fingers woven through black-woven braids, until their lips brush. Part. Meet again.

Gentle. Steady. Little dry presses of mouth against mouth.

Yasha softens slowly. Tilting into Beau, letting her in. Her cheeks are cold from tears, but inside – oh, she’s melty-soft, so warm. Her tongue teases shy against Beau’s own as she deepens the kiss, winding Yasha’s thick mane around her fist and pulling, _just_ until she whimpers. Gods, she’s perfect. Milky throat bruising under Beau’s sucking kisses, spit-shine on her gasping lips. It’s been _so long_ and Beau didn’t even realise how much she _wanted_ until she was here, but now she needs it, needs her like _air,_ and –

Beau eases her thigh between Yasha’s.

Or, y’know. She tries.

Yasha’s legs lock together.

“Um,” she says.

Beau freezes. “No?”

“Just, uh… I…” Yasha’s turning steadily redder. “This is nice. Really nice! But I _am_ tired, and – and – I mean, if _you_ want to, we can, but – “

Beau untangles herself from Yasha’s hair. Clears her throat. “I didn’t actually come here for that.”

“I mean, I guess I could get you off? Or – oh. Um. Really?”

“Really-really. Just…” How to phrase this? And how come this conversation gets her more flustered than screwing Yasha ever does? Beau scrapes a hand over her heating face. She scoots around so they’re facing each other, side-saddle on the bed, knees bumping. “I’m here for you,” she mutters. “Always. That’s all I wanted you to know. So, um. Right now. What do you need?”

Takes a while for Yasha to work her way around the enormity of that question. She eases down on her side, head resting on the pillow, hair curling out in waves. Just looking at Beau. Drinking her in, with the same intensity with which she studied her mural when Beau first entered.

“Can you stay?” she asks, eventually. “Please? Just until I fall asleep, if you want. If. If I can. I think it might be easier, with you here.”

Idiot. Beau lies down too, worming up to kiss her forehead. The paint has an odd chalky taste. “I’ll stay until morning, if you’ll have me.”

“Of course I will,” mumbles Yasha, against Beau’s collarbones. Then, quieter: “Always.”

Beau swallows hard before she chokes. She has to shut her eyes to stop them stinging.

She doesn’t know why that word makes her so excited. Why it makes her so afraid.

Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s more terrifying than anything –

Now isn’t the time to nurse insecurities. Not when Yasha tucks up against her, exhaling in a long, humid gush. Her eyes shut, lashes tickling Beau’s neck. All that accumulated exhaustion must be serious. For all her talk of nightmares, it seems like no time at all before she limpens, body letting go of so much tight-wound stress it’s like she grows in Beau’s arms.

Beau cracks a grin at her first wuffly snore. She tucks her arm over Yasha’s broad back. Then smooches her whitewater froth of plaits and curls, spends the next approximate minute pawing the hair off her tongue, and follows her down.

* * *

Beau has woken at six for as long as she can remember. On mornings she isn’t hungover, at least. On this particular daybreak, for the first time in a decade, she’s tempted to fall back asleep.

She’s warm. She’s comfortable. Velveteen coats her mind. Wherever she is, in this moment, is exactly where she ought to be.

Even though it isn’t her room.

Takes a moment to remember. So long since Beau last woke like this, tucked around Yasha’s bulk. They’ve shuffled in the night. Yasha has slipped down the bed, stomach conforming to the curl of Beau’s knees. Her arm loops Beau’s waist, heavy enough to shorten her inhales. Her wild hair tickles Beau’s belly.

Beau can feel her breathing. Smooth and steady.

Right against her scar.

She tenses. Lightning rends the sky. Skingorger plunges into her torso. 

A killing strike, zero hesitation. Tears dripping – _plip, plip –_ onto her cheeks, as Yasha’s mad smile wavers. Fading, all of it fading–

Beau shudders. She stomps that memory low in her mind. Locking it behind cast-iron doors.

You’re not supposed to ignore your trauma. But – hell. Beau’s from a family of winemakers. She’s nothing if not experienced at bottling things up.

She pets Yasha’s matted locks, making her grumble and nuzzle closer. It takes a stealth roll to escape without waking her. She has to replace her body with one of the pillows – Yasha gropes the blankets in search of her, brow creased. But then she’s up, and she’s free.

Beau sets off on her usual five-mile pre-breakfast run. She lets the exercise carry her away, through the stone streets of Rosohna. The impact of each footfall reverberates up through her tibia. Three quarters of an hour pass before she returns to the Xhorhouse, sweat-glossed, slimy down her back. She drops straight into push-ups (twenty-five one arm, twenty-five the other) and fifty pistol squats per leg, just to make Fjord glare. It’s as she rises from the last set of ten reps, burning all up her adductors and quads, that Nott calls up to Yasha.

A pause. Then a tentative creak from the stairs.

Yasha rounds the corner and –

Beau wobbles out of her squat, flapping for balance. “Holy _shit._ ”

Not a trick of her imagination, when she thought Yasha had grown.

“Okay, that’s not fair,” she says, once Fjord and Nott have stopped screaming and Yasha’s stumbled through an explanation of rolling out of bed, finding herself _even bigger than before,_ and accidentally pulling the handle off her door. “I’ve been working out _all morning_ and she just wakes up like that?”

Jester giggles, shoving her shoulder. She must’ve noticed that Beau never returned to their room. “Like you mind.”

Beau most certainly doesn’t. Just – damn. That’s a whole lot of barbarian who’d look gorgeous tied up in Beau’s bed.

Or not.

Beau admires that mental image. Yasha, trussed all pretty, black leather drawing bruise-patterns over alabaster skin. Panting for Beau, one leg tied to each bedpost. Held tight against all the pleasure Beau wants to give her, all of it she wants to take in return.

Beau memorises every angle of that scene. Then sets it aside. To enjoy during alone-time, later.

If Yasha’s not ready – hell, if after everything, she’s _never_ ready – Beau doesn’t mind. Which might be, to anyone who thinks they know her, a surprise. But it seems more important, somehow, that Beau gets to be the one who holds her through the night.

That’s what friends do for each other, right?

Sex friends. Fuck pals. Ugh. Beau still hasn’t found the right word for it.

One query into Aasamir second-puberty later (“I smell like a crayon”) every member of the Nein is wheezing. Beau too. Her tired legs sag from under her, and she flops back, limbless and giggling, on the chair beside Fjord. Hilarity’s contagious. Even Yasha joins in – one of those low chuckles that looks like they surprise her as much as everyone else.

Takes a solid minute for their team to calm enough for Nott to pop the big question: “Yasha, what the fuck is a crayon?”

At which point everyone cracks up _again_.

So really – well. Things aren’t perfect. They may not ever be. Not with dead wives and dead best friends behind them, and a visit to a certain winery ahead (one Beau dreads with every sinew of her being). But Beau isn’t after perfect. Just this: eating breakfast with her friends, in her home. With her barbarian by her side and their next adventure blowing in on a westerly breeze.

 _It’s enough,_ she thinks, for what might be the first time in her life. When Yasha sinks onto the seat next to her, freezing at the creak, Beau squeezes her thigh. She jumps at the contact, as always, but relaxes into Beau’s touch not a half-second later. Her faint, peaceful smile comes easier, today. _It’s enough, and long may it remain._

* * *

* * *

* * *

_You’re a survivor, Yasha._

Surviving. Yeah, she’s done more than her fair share.

She survived Zuala. She survived Molly. She so-very-almost survived Beau too. Though Yasha knows, deep down, it wouldn’t have been for long.

If she’d killed her in that church… If Obann had won: murdering his Orphan Maker and reviving her again to snap the seal, marching onwards with his Unstoppable Family to claim all of Exandria in the name of the thing that crawled beneath… Yasha would’ve found a way to make it all stop. Even with Obann’s claws sunk so deep they scratched whenever she blinked. Even with him tightening his chains whenever temptation rebounded along the gullies of her mind – _jump off that cliff, fall onto your sword, anything to be free._ Even with him whispering contrapuntal in her ears:

_Orphan Maker, stand up._

_Orphan Maker, keep walking._

_Orphan Maker, you are not permitted to die._

The Nein don’t like it when Yasha talks about stuff like that. They get this nervous, shifty look on their faces. Like they don’t know what’s happening in her head, or how to stop it, but think they probably should.

All except Caleb. The understanding in his eyes hurts impossibly more, so Yasha keeps the gory details of her life with Obann under wraps.

Surviving gets a little easier, over the following weeks. Yasha relearns how to sleep (with Beau wrapped around her). How to eat (rediscovering what she likes and dislikes, when Obann isn’t forcing her to feed herself so she doesn’t starve). How to breathe.

Even with his armour crushing her ribs.

She could take it off. Replace it with her new bracers. But that would mean a drop in her AC, and the last thing she wants is to be a liability in battle.

It’s okay. The armour’s just metal. Like the sword she’s attuned to: the Skingorger, that rusty behemoth that ran Beau through.

It aches to touch. But that burn of bad memories – it’s necessary.

Yasha doesn’t want to hurt herself anymore. Not when it hurts her friends too.

But she has to find punishment somewhere.

* * *

They cross into Exandria on the trail of Nott’s witch. For every pace they take closer to Kamordah, to a winery thriving on an ill-situated northerly slope, Beau withdraws. It’s uncanny, watching her shrivel. As alien as when Yasha saw her own limbs move under Obann’s control.

Beau should be bright smiles and bared teeth. She’s the yell of “Pop-pop!” in the midst of battle and shameless sniggers at her own dirty jokes. Not this woodlouse of a woman: curled on a bench at the seedy dive bar where the Nein have stopped for the night, muttering about how much she hates her leaky face.

Yasha has yet to meet her father. She already despises him. He takes away everything that makes Beau, _Beau_.

But Beau sneaks into her bed that night. Like Molly used to on the days he felt Empty, a soulless husk dug from a barren grave. She’s so light on her feet Yasha doesn’t notice her enter until the covers peel open. There’s this moment where she just _reacts._ Muscles tensing, eyes flashing red. But her Rage dissipates the moment a cold nose bumps the top knobble of her spine.

Callused hands frame the musculature of her shoulders. Beau murmurs – “Can I?”

Too small. Too scared.

Or maybe, there’s no ‘too’ about it.

Maybe Beau _is_ scared sometimes, just as Yasha is. Even if she hides it better.

Yasha rolls. She loops her arms over Beau’s warm, shivery body, tucking her against her. Then, when Beau mumbles something about not wanting to get snot on her, shuffles her around so they fit together, her front to Beau's back, neat as silverware in a drawer.

“Want to?” she asks, burying her yawn against Beau’s nape. Because Beau _does_ tend to be pretty predictable in her self-care methods. She traces one fingertip up and over the perk of one little breast.

Beau shakes her head. She grabs Yasha’s hand, interlacing their fingers. She smells of the day’s sweat and her favourite bitter Empire beer, and there’s a tremor to her shoulders like she’s trying her damnedest not to cry.

Yasha won’t point it out. She kisses her neck instead, over the point Beau sometimes lets her bite, and shuts her eyes.

Beau’s gone by the time she wakes. Worry flares, followed by a pang of guilt for all the times Yasha made her wake alone. It’s okay. Beau’s coming back. She’s not like Yasha. She would never abandon her friends.

The Nein stand taller together. Quite literally, in Yasha’s case – and dammit, maybe the third concussion will remind her how much _more_ she needs to duck nowadays, to fit through the average door. Point is, they all support Beau. Like they look out for Caleb whenever they interact with a member of the Cerberus Assembly, and Jester when she frets about her mum, and Fjord when he lurches awake in the night plagued by dreams of drowning, and Nott over whatever stepping stones come next on her path. Like (Yasha knows, even if she can’t quite bring herself to accept it) they’re here for her, too.

It’s strange, being welcomed back. She slips into the chasm she carved in their lives, finding the places where this persona – this _Yasha_ – fits. The tight spots where Orphan Maker outgrew her; the loose, empty corners the Nein are still waiting for their Yasha to refill. A part of her screams to break free and run. To keep snapping chains until she’s unmoored, alone, safe from heartbreak. She stamps down on it like she’s killing a rat.

It’s okay, to allow yourself to be bound. So long as you submit with all your heart. So long as you let yourself stop fighting.

Yasha hasn’t done that in so long. She’s horribly out-of-practice. But for the Nein, she’ll try.

So, she threatens Beau’s father (but doesn’t put her fist through his face). She offers her book of flowers to Nott’s witch (and swallows her sneering verdict: _It’s hard to make someone more miserable, when they’re already at rock bottom_ ). And she holds Beau tighter than ever that night in the swamps, knowing she offered up something more precious still.

Because Beau would never abandon her friends. Not unless it meant saving someone else.

“Don’t go.” It’s a prayer, uttered into Beau’s loose hair. Strands of it kiss Yasha’s cheeks, her lashes, her lips, cool as the surrounding night. “Please, don’t go.”

Beau’s not supposed to hear. But when has that ever stopped her? “Yash?”

Fuck. Panic. Abort, abort.

Yasha feigns sleep. Then, when Beau twists to squint at her, manages a horribly fake snore.

Beau groans. She wiggles around to face her fully. The Nein are in Caleb’s bubble, surrounded by swamps, coiled tight as hibernating dormice. Beau must elbow someone – Caduceus? – because there’s a faint, good-natured grumble and a waft of grassy gas, followed by a rustling rearrangement of their heap.

“You say something, Yash?”

The blue of her gaze is just visible. Twin azure cuts illuminated by magelight. Yasha wants to ask, accuse – _you’d leave me for your brother?_

But Beau would only reply – _you’d leave me for your god?_

Yasha doesn’t know anymore. She is nothing without the Stormlord. He constructed her from the broken ruin collapsed across his altar, so many years ago. But the skies are silent. The thunder no longer speaks her tongue. Kord values the grit to get up and keep fighting. His is a cult of brutalism and strength. Yasha doesn’t know why he chose her. She can only presume he regrets it.

It has been so very long, after all, since she felt anything approaching strong.

“It’s nothing,” she mumbles, budging her forehead against Beau’s. “Just – let’s go back to sleep? Please?”

Beau thins her eyes. Yasha is reminded, not for the first time, of Zuala: how her gaze ate through each of Yasha’s lies. It’s as painful a comparison as ever. Before Yasha can recoil, Beau hooks an arm around her, then a leg for safe-keeping.

“I’m not leaving,” she says. “ _None_ of us are.”

Yasha prays she’s right.

“Okay,” she whispers. Rubbing their noses together, shutting her eyes. 

“Mm.” Beau nestles into her embrace. She strokes Yasha’s chin, along the line of her tattoo. “Your snores are way cuter than that, for the record.”

At which point Nott, who’s on watch, proclaims ‘Oh my _god’_ loud enough to wake half the camp. Another army of acid-spewing zombies lumbers through the stagnant pools, converging on their position – which at least makes for a good distraction from the heat in Yasha’s ears.

The heat that trickles down her neck, pooling behind her clavicles. Then lower still.

The heat which (after a whole fucking _month_ ) she has no idea what to do with.

* * *

Here’s the thing: Yasha loves being Beau’s. Loves following her commands, pleasuring her, sinking into a state of mind where she can relax enough, succumb enough, to let herself be pleasured in return.

Or at least, she used to.

What if, when Beau gives an order, she hears his voice?

What if she can’t find it again: that soft place inside herself, that pool Beau baptizes her in where fighting is (for once) the furthest thing from Yasha’s mind? What if it’s gone forever?

Yasha’s so terrified of that answer. She doesn’t want to seek it out.

Yet equally, she must. She yearns to push herself, to reclaim everything _he_ stole from her. She’s a dichotomy wrapped in heartache wrapped in skin, and her heart shatters whenever she sees the scar she carved into Beau’s torso. But when Beau takes her hand on their return to the Xhorhouse, tugging her towards the basement bathroom, her flush adding a richness to the brown of her cheeks –

Well. What happens to Yasha’s heart doesn’t feel very much like _shattering,_ at all.

The Nein soak an hour in the tub, ridding themselves of blood and mud, swamp-water and acidic zombie goop. Yasha washes Sprinkle, for which he is rabidly ungrateful. At least Jester can wear him as a scarf without her ears melting off. Though they might still be _bitten_ off, as a whirlwind of angry weasel savages her head. Thank the Gods for Caduceus’s sandwiches.

Five water changes later, the pool runs clear. The Nein sit in a ring, legs tangling and occasionally kicking underwater. Even Nott deigns to scrub her face and hands, though she stays a metre to one side of the bath, ringed by a grimy puddle.

Caleb evacuates first. He’s rinsed himself to an impressive level of cleanliness. That’s impressive by his standards; tolerable by everyone else’s. Nott dashes after him, no doubt fretting over their success with the witch – what it means for her, her family, her future. Jester follows, petting a snarling Sprinkle and muttering something about black moss cupcakes, along with Caduceus, who’s trying to memorise the recipe.

Leaving Beau and Yasha.

And Fjord. Who sprawls back on the marble seat, plumed in steam, tilting his head to rest on the edge of the bath. Then yelps, and glares at Beau.

“Ow! What! Haven’t you done enough damage to my poor foot?”

Beau raises her eyebrows. Fjord’s next invective dies on his lips.

He looks at her.

He looks at Yasha.

Yasha sinks lower into the bath. Her warpaint washed off around the third scrub’n’rinse, curling blackly through the water. Her face feels naked without it. She wonders if her flush can be blamed on the steam.

“Oh,” says Fjord. Then: “ _Oh._ ”

He hurls himself from the bath, skidding on the slick stones. Over he tumbles – but his arms shoot out at the last minute, cushioning the impact. Saves him from pancaking his own nose. He shakes out his wrists as he dashes for the exit, calling back over his shoulder:

“Breauj rules, Beau! If you screw in the tub, you drain and refill it!”

Beau sticks her middle finger up, but her smile’s all smirk. It pinches Yasha’s belly, winds her tight as a bobbin.

The door swings shut behind Fjord. Beau turns to Yasha. Her hair hangs loose. It slithers down the left side of her face in an umber curtain, curling where it meets the water’s surface. It softens her, as much as the steam and the perfumed water. Her hard lines blur. Everything is liquid smooth, from her bare tattooed shoulders to the ripples that trail her fingertips as she skims them back and forth.

Not her eyes, though. Those are sapphire chips, scratching Yasha’s skin.

Yasha clears her throat. “You see him catch himself? He’s getting stronger, I think.”

“Taught him everything he knows. We’ll get him from Twink to Twunk soon enough.”

“Mm-hm. Yeah. A noble cause.”

“…You know what a twink is?”

“My book explained it very thoroughly. There were, uh, diagrams.”

Beau’s grin starts twitching. Takes all of five seconds before the snort-laugh bursts from her nose. It’s not a pretty sound – nasally, back-throated. But it’s all Beau, and she’s never been more beautiful.

Then again, Yasha thinks that whenever she looks at her. She suspects she might be biased.

She grins too, ducking her head to hide it. Until water laps against her, followed by Beau’s warm, wet body. She tilts Yasha’s head up, clucking her tongue at her wet hair – all tangled in the hoops and scaffolds that Molly punched through her ears.

“That book sure taught you a lot, hmm?” she asks, unhooking the first strand. Starting on the next.

Yasha holds herself deathly still. Counting her breaths so they stay steady. “I guess. I didn’t know much about how people with dicks fucked each other before.”

Unless those dicks were ceramic. And painted with flowers.

Beau nods sagely. Rivulets paint all her angles. Her fingers are agile as sparrows. They dart through Yasha’s hair, tugging where it snags on her studs. Freeing her, curl by curl. “Jester has… a vivid imagination.”

Yasha huffs a laugh. "Let's not even mention the butter-churner."

It’s thrilling and just a little terrifying when Beau unhooks the last tangle of her fringe and leans forward, eyes hungry, like she wants to eat it off her lips. Yasha’s ready. Heart skipping at every slap of the settling water. Wanting Beau to broach the inch of space between their bodies. To lean in and kiss her like she’s breathing her back to life –

“Can I?” Beau’s thumb brushes Yasha’s underlip, so careful.

“Uh, yeah. Can I?”

“Yeah,” Beau repeats. Then – finally – she seals that last fissure between them. Piling herself, slick and sinewy, on Yasha’s lap.

Her weight is an anchor. Still so light, though. She’s no burden. She never will be.

She straddles Yasha’s legs, kneeling so Yasha has to look up at her. One small hand presses her against the tub’s marble rim, spanning the swell of her left breast. Yasha could resist. But she doesn’t need to – no, she doesn’t _want_ to. There’s no denying it, with Beau: how much Yasha wants to sink into herself, let someone else take control.

Just –

_You’re my favourite, Orphan Maker. My love._

Not like that.

Never like that, never again.

Yasha would rather die.

She kisses Beau instead. Kisses her like there’s an escape from those thoughts in her steam-softened lips. In her scent: Jester’s lavender bath salts and sandalwood soap.

Water films their bodies. They slide together, slick as sealskin, as Beau deepens the kiss, keeping Yasha pinned. She moves with the rhythm, hips rocking in time with the stroke of her tongue. Her breasts are tiny, pert, the only softness on her frame. And – fuck. Those little bumps must be her nipples. Pebbled pink, flush to Yasha’s chest.

Yasha moans. Then feels embarrassed about it. Then feels embarrassed about _feeling_ embarrassed, thinks ‘fuck it’, and moans louder.

Beau snaps the spit thread connecting them with a lick of her lips. She gives Yasha this Look. Capital L. Yasha has read (thanks, Jester) about how a sultry stare can sizzle in your veins. She didn’t really _believe_ it. But Beau makes that weird metaphor a reality: cracking flints above kindling, igniting Yasha’s blood.

“Wanna be loud?” she whispers. “Wanna make pretty noises for me, let everyone know how good I fuck you?”

The wet between Yasha’s thighs isn’t just from the water. Tingles dance between her vertebrae. Like her _bones_ have gone limp. All of her melting, for Beau.

Something must show on her face, because Beau grins like the cat who got the cream. Or who caught the canary. Or who screwed the pooch and killed her whole family? Yasha gets confused with colloquialisms.

“That a yes?”

She palms Yasha’s breasts. Lifting them, squeezing them. Thumbs circle her nipples, hard enough to dance that sawtooth edge of pain - “Yes! Fuck, Beau, please – _yes -_ “

“Then get up on the side of the tub. Spread yourself, angel. I wanna see all of you.”

Yasha wants to. Gods, she wants to. But the imperative scrapes, and her shoulders lock with that instinctual, desperate need to _struggle, snap the chains,_ and –

“Yash?”

Yasha swallows. She forces herself to open her eyes.

There’s Beau. Beautiful, all shimmery with reflections from the water. She hovers over her, drawn back but not away. Brows converged. “You okay?”

Beau. Just Beau, who’s smooth and dark as her polished oak staff, not the red of old, dried blood. Whose eyes are blue, not yellow. Who only holds Yasha as tightly as she can take. Who doesn’t dismantle her defences, strip her of her right to say _no._ Just helps her relax enough to let someone else in.

Shame stabs, jagged as Skingorger. Yasha’s worried her again. She has to stop doing that, though she doesn’t have the first clue as to _how_.

“Can you,” she mumbles. Stops. Starts. Stops again. “I – I’m sorry. Can you not give orders? It’s just, I just –“

Beau looks wounded. Then (worse) guilty. Like she has anything, anything _at all,_ to be guilty for. “Yeah, of course. We don’t have to do that. We don’t have to do that ever again, if you don’t want – “

“No. No, I want. I – “ She pictures him: clawed hands, cruel smirks. Wings she wants to tear off over and over. Like she tells herself, over and over, that she is no longer so afraid.

Yasha squashes her hands between her knees, like that’ll stop them shaking.

“I – I don’t want to let him take this from me. I _won’t._ I – he’s already taken too much. Not this too. But. But just for tonight – “

“Just for tonight.” Beau kisses her again. Slower, softer. “What do you want? Tell me, yeah? How about that? You tell me how you want me to be taken apart.”

Yasha squirms, but not like she’s trying to get away. Takes a while, as always, for her to sort her words. She spends the time resting her forehead on Beau’s. Squeezing her slim hips beneath the water. 

She has been stolen from the Nein so often. By grief. By the Stormlord. By Lorenzo and Obann. She wants to be here, in this moment. Bound by chains that are her own to forge.

“I want your fist,” she whispers, and doesn’t realize until the words leave her just how true they are.

For the longest moment, Beau doesn’t reply. When Yasha glances up, she finds her making noiseless mouth-movements. Kinda like a guppy.

“Uh. Beau?”

“Sorry! Sorry-sorry-sorry. Just. Wow, phew.” Beau fans herself one-handed. She’s either trying to cool off or clear the white furls of steam. Judging by the rosy undertone to her skin, neither are successful. “Um, think you could repeat that? And – and say please? You don’t have to, just – I might’ve, uh, fantasized about this, and – “

“Can you fist me,” says Yasha. “Please?”

“Oh, Jesus fucking _Christ."_ Beau ignores Yasha’s enquiry as to whether the ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ is another of Jester’s sex-position diagrams, in favour of ducking in for another kiss. That’s over too soon. Yasha barely has chance to lick back into Beau’s mouth before she draws away. Waves slop over the side of the tub as she swings off Yasha’s lap, settling to one side. “Might need you to get out after all, though. Sound good?”

The only thing that _doesn’t_ sound good is having this stop. Yasha rearranges, following Beau’s directions – given as questions, not commands. It makes a knot inside her untwist, hearing the upwards lilt at the end of every sentence: “You wanna be on your hands and knees? Or on your back for me, mm?”

This is Beau letting her make the choice. Letting her decide how she is dismantled, piece by piece, then resurrected after.

Like a temple. Desecrated, then rebuilt. Brick by brick by brick.

Yasha kneels on the bath's seat, belly-down on the marble edge, calves and feet immersed in soap-swirled water. It’s a position she never envisioned herself in. But fuck, if it doesn’t make her heart race, her thighs quiver. When Beau touches her (stroking up her flank, each callus familiar) Yasha breathes out. She lets strength drain from her muscles. Permitting the stone to hold her weight, while Beau cradles her heart.

Those rough fingertips sketch swirls in the water droplets. Beau circles a mole at the top of Yasha’s thigh that she’s never been able to twist far enough to see. When she kisses it (like Zuala used to) Yasha shivers, outside and in.

“Look at you.” Such reverence in Beau’s voice. Holy as Yasha feels when she casts her prayers at a storm-swollen sky. “Wet before you’ve even been touched. Needy slut of mine.”

 _Yours,_ Yasha thinks. _Yes._

She spreads her legs further, sloshing the bathwater. It’s dizzying, imagining what she must look like. Presented for Beau, flushed and wanting. She has to press her cheek to the cool, damp marble to dull the thunder of her pulse.

“Fucking gorgeous,” says Beau. She sounds dazzled, too. But the squeeze she gives Yasha’s thigh is all-too real, keeping her tethered, not letting her drift away.

Water laps. A slow stroke down Yasha’s spine, making her arch like a cat, chasing Beau’s touch. Then –

_Oh._

No more preamble. Just one finger, drawn straight down her slit.

Shallow, fast. Parting her to the humid air. There, then gone.

Yasha pushes back. Hissing through her teeth; desperate for something, _anything_. “Please, more – “

Beau has always known when to deny her. Yasha receives nothing but her stare (though that’s so heated she swears she _feels_ it, sunlight-warm).

“Beau…”

Sweat dews her body. Nervous; she can’t deny it. It’s been so long. A part of her wants to roll on the slippery stone, keep Beau in her sights. Remind herself, constantly, that it’s _her._ Nobody else.

But then –

“Good girl.” Beau’s finger returns. Dancing feather-light around her clit. “Already so eager.”

That’s all Yasha needs. Her voice. Her touch. Surrounding her, soft as feathers. She whines. Rocking into those teasing touches, so near yet so far from where she needs. Jerking at every incidental brush.

“No, no.” Beau leans over her. Her words swell warm against Yasha’s back. “Can’t have you tensing. You need to relax, angel.” Then, rather than turning it into a command: “Think you can do that? Can you relax, for me?”

Yasha barely remembers how to make noise. She nods, wet hair tangled around her throat.

When Beau feeds her the first two fingers, she takes them embarrassingly easy. Her body’s ahead of her, needy for more.

Beau kisses the dimples on her back. “Feel that?” she murmurs, wiggling them inside. Stirring her, silk and slick. “That’s so good, beautiful. You’re doing so well.”

 _Beautiful. Good._ So many things she’s never believed of herself. They don’t sound like lies, not from Beau’s mouth. Even if a part of Yasha refuses to believe them. “Please –“

“Hey, no need to beg.” Beau scissors her, testing her stretch. “You’re doing enough of that here.”

Fuck. Yasha’s fingers curl, nails scratching marble. No purchase. Just a quiet scrape, at counterpoint to the steady, squelching seat of Beau’s knuckles against her soaked folds.

She burns all across her face and chest. She’s been doused in oil, set alight. The flush trickles lower, over her sternum, as Beau uncorks one of Jester’s colourful bathside bottles – hopefully containing something safe for internal use. She drizzles the slippery liquid over Yasha, fucking in and out. Then adds a third finger.

And a fourth.

Yasha just _takes_ her. Soft and elastic, plush with pleasure. Welcoming Beau in deep.

It hurts. Of course it does. But Yasha if nothing if not a connoisseur of pain, and this burn registers as nothing but glorious, as Beau rocks her hand, catching Yasha each time on the hook of her thumb. As she strokes that thumb up further, to swivel – just lightly – over the pucker above.

Yasha _gasps_. Shocked by the _goodness_ of it, how pressure flutters effervescent up her spine. She cants back, angling, wanting only –

“Like that?” Another circle of Beau’s thumb. Oh – she must intend to ease her open there too, everywhere, lay claim to every inch. Yasha thinks she’d let her.

But then Beau adjusts her angle. She sets her thumb against the stretch of her instead. Where she’s tight-drawn and aching so sweet.

“Next time, angel. For now…”

Her fingers open. Yasha doesn’t have the language to _think_ how it feels, being pulled apart so perfectly inside.

More warmth. Not just from where she leaks over herself, slickening her thighs. Beau tucks her other hand under her body, stroking her clit with one lotion-softened finger. Making her spasm and loosen, then spasm again. Whimpers pushed up her throat. All the while, that pressure increases: Beau’s thumb, tucking close to her palm. The tip easing just – _just –_ inside.

“Let’s fill that pretty pussy up. Yeah, Yash?”

Yasha doesn’t know if it’s the steam, the last lingering heat of the bath or the warmth of her body that’s muddling her senses, spinning her vision. But she wrangles out a “Yeah,” hearing herself speak from so far away.

Worming her elbows under her, she tilts her pelvis up _._ Grinding herself against the tight stuff of Beau’s hand. Clenching her jaw. Bearing down. She can do this. Hurts worse, now. Just pain, though. That’s all. She’s dealt with pain before –

“Woah, woah.” The palm returns to her lower back. Pressing down. Keeping her steady, with everything but strength. “This is about relaxing, remember?”

No, Yasha needs, Yasha _needs._ To prove herself to Beau, to the Stormlord, to the memory of _his_ rotting wings. She needs to know she’s still in control – even when she gives that control away.

Beau eases back. Just to the point where her thumb doesn’t strain where she’s burning, sore-stretched.

“This isn’t about hurting you.” The snarl has been stolen from her voice. “You – Yasha, you know that, right? You know I – I don’t want that. I don’t want to punish you.”

Her fingertips are a shallow tickle. Yasha can’t help but contract around them, like she’s trying to pull Beau back in. But this – it’s not just about the flow of their bodies, anymore.

Beau – Beau thinks…?

Yasha shakes her head, where it rests on her trembling forearms. “No,” she whispers. “I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

Though she’d ask it of strangers. Barbarians in fighting pits. Witches in dark huts.

_Finish it, Champion. You’re so close._

No doubt, this isn’t the answer Beau wants. She would rather hear how Yasha no longer feels like a broken tool, a marionette puppeteered for a higher purpose, her body not her own. She would rather believe that Yasha is fully at home here, with her and the Nein. That she feels _safe._

But if Yasha refuses to hurt Beau again, she won’t lie to her, either.

The silence stretches. A string under tension. Fraying, on the cusp of a snap.

Yasha measures the space between her heartbeats. Wondering what expression Beau wears. Not daring to turn back and look.

Then Beau clicks her tongue off her teeth. “Look at this." Her fingers curl. They’re back in the game, Beau massaging that spot that throbs so sweet inside. “All tight again. Best change that, hadn’t we?”

Yasha nods. Gratitude swells in her chest. It's so much easier to sink beneath this surface with Beau as her guide, than to face whatever they left on the shore.

She pulses to the press of Beau’s fingers, where they grind into her body and circle her clit. She softens against the stretch of Beau’s hand, rocking between dual sensations. Gasping, every time the web of Beau’s thumb catches her entrance. Greedy, knowing it's all that stands between her and more, more, _more._

When Beau pulls the flesh to either side of her clit taut and strokes her damp middle finger over it (slow, _maddening,_ building her up) Yasha hears herself keen. Is it really her making those breathy, animal sounds? Is it her who’s writhing at the sudden ice-white, _perfect_ pain as Beau fucking _pinches_? Crying out in Celestial until the marble ceiling quivers?

She’s floating. _Flying._ The closest to it she can come, with wings of tar and shadow. 

“Pretty slut.” A lick at her throat, another flex of the fingers inside. “Not long now, I don’t think.”

Yasha’s body is one taut tremble. Beau damn near took _notes_ on her squirting lesson, back on the _Ball Eater,_ before they made port in Nicodramus. She let Yasha lead – a change of pace they both enjoy every once in a while, though Yasha always finds herself fumbling her words, awkwardness amplified tenfold. It certainly didn’t help untangle her tongue when Beau put her education to the test: fucking Yasha on her fingers, working her up from the inside, then flicking fast across her clit till she lost control.

This – like this – fuck, she’s going to go again; she can _feel it…_

Still, she bites it back. Shuddering, grinding fierce against Beau’s knuckles. “M-May I? Please?”

Beau _groans._ Like she’s getting off on this: Yasha beneath her, spread for her, asking permission; hers, hers, hers. And, okay. Maybe Yasha’s getting off on it too, because _Stormlord_ , it feels so good to stop fighting. To be, if not safe, then something close.

Its all so intense. Fuck, she’s _rippling_ inside. Ready, so ready. All she needs is Beau’s word.

Her _order._ Because Yasha is choosing to serve her, choosing to bow before her. She owns this – her submission, her subjugation. For the first time in _oh so long._

Yasha whines. Back flexing, slick muscle fluttering, deep within. The heady power in that knowledge almost tips her over; and she needs Beau to say something, anything; take command; _please_ –

“Fuck, _Yasha,_ ” whispers Beau. Then the bite returns to her voice: a mask she dons not just because she loves it, but because Yasha needs it (and the thought that anyone could care enough to hold her like this – it might just shake apart Yasha’s whole world). “You’re going to feel pleasure, angel. Because you deserve it, not because I say so. Because you’ve been _such_ a good girl for me, and I want you to feel fucking _glorious._ You think you can do that for me, Yash? You think you can feel divine?”

One more pet of her clit, one more push inside of her.

And –

“Cum, Yash. You can do it. You can let go.”

 _There_.

It overflows. Throbbing through her, a molten-magma wave.

The first pulse of wetness squirts from her body. Yasha flings her head back _._ Shuddering, mindless. She gushes over Beau’s fingers (still circling, still _tormenting,_ easing her through it, on and on). Back a bow. Thighs quivering, soaked with one hot splash after the next.

“There we go.” Beau’s voice rasps softer now. Praising, purring. Another test of her thumb. She tucks it _just_ inside. Easing deeper. Deeper again. “So good for me, baby. Taking what I give you. Taking it so well.”

Oh – Stormlord. It still stretches, still burns. But lax like this, all the fight fucked out of her, fluttering in weak star-shock bursts…

It’s so easy to sink loose. To pulse in time with Beau’s gentle pushes, swallowing her in.

The bump of her thumb grows.

And grows.

Yasha’s eyes roll. Vision a grey fuzz. It enters her – _oh –_ with a little _pop_ she feels all the way up her core.

Beau’s hand. Her entire _fist_.

Yasha can _feel_ it. The thick, swollen ache; the bursting pressure. Each punch-scarred _inch_ of Beau, buried within.

“Yash – by Ioun, you’re incredible, you’re beautiful, you’re – you’re everything –“

She turns her hand ever-so-slightly. Knuckles rubbing against the plush of her. And Yasha (still cresting that high, drenched and thrumming) –

Yasha

just

keeps

_cumming._

Her body is a ripple of pleasure. Each minute thrust of Beau’s hand, each flex of her fist, it sends more waves cascading through her. Breaking off the back of her naval, the insides of her skull. On and on, neverending.

She loses time again. Loses everything. Mind melting like hot caramel.

It’s okay though. There’s no distance to it. She sinks into her own body. Unable to compose any thought more coherent than _yes_ and _want_ and _more, Beau, more._ Convulsing. Letting Beau grind against her, inside her, the marble running wet with her release. Whittled away to nothing but gasps.

Yasha rocks lazily on Beau’s wrist. Eking this out. Letting it dissolve every care and leave her light as seafoam. Thoughts frothy, honeydew sweet.

The world creeps back in increments. The heady burn between her legs. Drool on her arm. Bruised bite marks, too – though she has no recollection of putting them there. And Beau. Tugging at the soft clench of her, as Yasha squeezes on the swell of her hand.

She catches fragments of whispered nonsense – “ _So tight_ ” and “ _So sweet_ ” and “ _my Yasha, my good girl, mine, mine_ ”. Beau’s words give this strange, melty headspace substance. Especially when she sweeps Yasha’s hair aside and crushes her lips to her scarred nape like she can kiss away all memory of Obann’s brand.

How long before Yasha recalls how to form words? It might be hours. It might be days. She’s got cottonmouth like Molly slipped her some suude. Certainly, enough lights dance behind her eyes.

“Thank you,” is the first thing she says. Takes several tries for it to sound like syllables.

Beau kisses her neck again. “You’re so very welcome. You, um.” A wiggle of her fingers, tickling the top of Yasha’s cunt. “Ready to have it out?”

“Mm.” Yasha could honestly stay like this forever. She doesn’t mind the dig of the tub rim against her hipbones, not when she has Beau’s fist. But, she supposes, Beau might need it back at some point. And – well. If Jester hasn’t already figured out what they’re doing, it won’t be long before she wrangles an explanation out of Fjord. No lock on the bathroom door. “I – just another minute. Please?”

Beau lets her have it. Yasha can see her, just, if she cranes back over her shoulder. Her drying hair frizzes in the humidity. Unplaited, it hangs past her shoulders, over the shaved sides of her scalp, straight as a pine. Her gaze fondles Yasha, from the silky stretch of her on Beau’s wrist up the corded muscle of her back. When she catches her looking, her dazed, delighted expression morphs into a grin.

“Mm,” she says. Tugging her fist against the lock of Yasha’s body, pressing back in. “The butter-churner.”

Yasha manages not to laugh, but only because she might rupture something. “Gods.”

Beau winks, and suddenly, the delicious fullness of her fist can’t compare to this all-consuming need to kiss her. “I’ll have Jester add it to the book.”

So long as she doesn’t require a demo. “Good plan. Um. I – I think I’m ready, now.”

“Right.” Beau’s so careful, as she eases out. Pinching her fingers together, though they must cramp. “Relax for me, yeah?”

Yasha does her best. The withdraw is both easier and harder. She’s loose, wrung out from an orgasm so vivid it was like seeing the world in colour for the first time. But her body is a sensitive flush, centred on the dripping heat between her legs. She has to push in weak little pulses to help Beau slide free. Each contraction sends a lightning-sharp aftershock up her spine. More tiny peaks, prickling her abdomen like she’s swallowed one of the sparklers Empire children light on festival days.

Yasha’s panting again by the time Beau’s thumb pops out. The rest of her hand follows soon after, and she whines as the cool air hits her insides, clenching weakly on nothing. Everything below her waist feels raw and soft.

“There,” says Beau. A splash, as she rinses her knuckles in the bath. She clambers out to lay beside Yasha, all angles, jutting against the marble. Yasha would twist onto her back, tug Beau up and onto her, give her a softer resting place. If she could only move. She’s boneless, barely drawing breath. Her lashes droop as Beau cups her cheek and gives her this unbearably gentle smile.

Still, she has to ask – “What about you?”

Beau laughs. “Ioun above, don’t worry about me! That was – that was… Fuck, I don’t have the _words._ Just experiencing that, with you, was privilege enough. And…”

She reaches down. Over Yasha’s back.

Yasha spreads her legs again. Automatic. Unthinking. No question about it (though she aches so hot between them, and shivers to think how she must look, all swollen and stretched).

Beau strokes between her lips. Plucking just inside. 

“I hope,” says Beau, lowly, “it’s one you’ll let me repeat.”

“Y-yeah.” She has to swallow several times before she can speak. “Yeah, I think – that would be good.”

A kiss against her shoulder. “ _You’re_ good. My good girl. My angel.” Spoken with an echo of bewilderment, like Beau can scarcely believe it.

Yasha smiles. She lets herself limpen, puddling on the stone. There’s a lull here, as Beau lifts a washcloth and rinses her off, pressing more kisses to Yasha’s shoulder at every wince. A space just large enough for the two of them: no room for the grief or guilt or fear they carry. A reprieve from the weight of the world.

Some hurts no healing spell can cure. Some pains, Beau’s touch and cool water will not soothe. But Yasha feels safer, she thinks, as the cloth smooths her over. So much safer, for every day at Beau’s side.

* * *

“Did you drain the tub?” is Nott’s first demand, when they emerge half an hour later, skin no longer pruney and steam-flushed. “I don’t know what STDs Beau’s carrying, but I don’t want to catch them.”

It’s Yasha she glares at, though. Yasha’s kinda used to that, by now.

She can’t hold it against the goblin. Nott’s protective streak is as wide as her own, and it’s good to know she’ll do anything to defend her new family. Even take out another member of it.

But still…

Yasha squeezes Beau’s arm before she can roll her eyes and grumble an affirmative (to the water change, not the STDs). “We forgot,” she says, straight-faced. Looking directly at Nott. “Aw snap. Killed my whole family.”

Everyone stares. Bar Nott herself, who drops her face into her little green hands.

“What?” manages Caleb.

“Long story!” says Nott, entirely too loud. “Who cares about the tub! An STD shared is an STD doubled! All good! Let’s eat!”

Off she goes. Scrambling for the kitchen, to help Caduceus serve their dinner.

“The fuck was that?” whispers Beau, as Yasha slides into her seat. A little gingerly, because – yeah. She’s feeling it. And will probably still be feeling it, when she wakes up tomorrow.

Which – mm. Shouldn’t be such a hot thought.

Yasha doesn't wear Obann’s armour in the house (Fjord, Beau, Caduceus - all of them insisted). But she always straps it on before she ventures outdoors. She can't bear the thought of the Nein having to defend her. No one's going to die for her. Never again.

(“ _An example it is.”_

 _Molly, no –_ )

Stupid, to allow herself to be vulnerable. To let herself be hurt, to compromise her team for her own pleasure. But perhaps – just for one night –

Yasha is allowed to rest.

She sinks until her spine conforms to the cushioned backrest. Breathing out, out, out until she’s empty. 

Beau usually perches beside Jester. Today though, she stays by Yasha – most likely because Jester keeps waggling her eyebrows and mouthing for Beau to _tell me all the details._ And – shit. How easily does sound travel up from the Xhorhouse’s basement level?

…Why isn’t Caleb meeting Yasha’s eyes?

Fuck it. Yasha is too blissed out to bother with mortification. She gives Beau her best innocent-barbarian-who-doesn’t-understand-the-nuances-of-social-convention blink. “Nott’s teaching me about Empire idioms.”

Beau narrows her eyes, like she’s making an Insight Check. Whatever its results, a grin curves across her lips. She ducks to give Yasha a kiss.

In front of everyone.

For the very first time.

Yasha freezes. Squinting at Beau – cross-eyed, disbelieving. Then she relaxes, warmth weaving under and over her ribs.

Until Beau pulls back. “I bet you’re, uh, a _handful_ of a student.”

What? No. She isn’t. She… _wouldn’t_.

That smirk confirms it. She definitely is.

“Geddit? Hand… full… full… of a hand…”

…Why does Yasha like her again? “Awful, Beau.”

Fjord slaps the table. “Whatever is going on here, _please_ don’t talk about it before dinner.”

“After food, then,” says Beau. She gives Yasha’s shoulder a cheeky budge with her hip. “Think I might want dessert –“

“No! No. Don’t you dare defile the dinner table, too! As your captain, Beau, I think it’s high time we laid down some _boundaries…_ ”

Caduceus and Nott emerge from the kitchen, hefting a large silver tureen between them, swimming with rich vegetable broth. It’s… rather lopsided. Nott glares crossbow bolts at Yasha. She wobbles along on the balls of her feet, propping her side of the dish high over her head. Best bury the hatchet. Yasha stands – then regrets it, wincing. She heads over to assist, doing her best to smooth her features. Walking _just_ a little bow-legged.

Still, they ferry the soup to table with minimal spills, enquiries from Caduceus if she needs a healing spell, or subsequent choking noises from Fjord. Yasha slumps onto her seat with no little relief. 

Jester leans across, once they’ve all been served. “Congrats on the sex, Yasha!”

She even raises a toast. As Beau knocks back her drink, Caduceus sighs through his nose, Nott takes the chance to unstopper her flask, and Fjord whispers, “Tell me you _did_ actually drain the hot-tub… Right, Beau?” – Yasha looks to Caleb.

The wizard is the other point of calm in their rowdy circle. He sits on the far side of the table, as if to balance out the other members of the Nein.

Means he’s in the perfect spot to pull faces at. Not that either of them are much good at that.

Yasha just gives her eyes a little roll. Caleb returns it. And they return to their soup with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love!! As are sub!bottom Yasha fics... anyone...... blease,,,


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Happy Valentine's Day! Have a masterclass in insecurity from Beauregard 'I've been asking this woman to stay for over a year, but do I like, _like-like_ her' Lionett**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hokay! Not everything in this chapter is hunky-dory. Obviously, Sharpe creeps on Yasha - that's 'off-screen' and goes no further than it did in the show, though it's still an uncomfortable situation. However, the scene that follows, while consensual, is Not Wholly Enjoyable for various emotional reasons. There's a lot going on beneath the surface, and both the girls get hurt. Be ye warned.

The Marquis' party is sure to be _exquisite._

_Exemplary._

_Extraordinary._

Other multisyllabic words beginning with ‘ex’.

Beau expects to find tasteful, silvery decorations, along with tasteful, silvery noble types exchanging tasteful, silvery conversation over hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Just like the functions her mother dragged her around as a kid. It will be resplendent. It will be stuffy and just a little snobbish at the edges. But above all else, it will be beautiful.

Yasha is more beautiful still.

Beau’s lungs shrink when she steps out of the cabin. Like a giant’s reached into her ribcage and _squeezed._

“Holy,” is all she can manage, tugging the sharp wings of her shirt collar, “ _shit._ ”

“I take that as a compliment!” Jester turns a pirouette. Her skirts are a jellyfish of pink ruffles. She has her hair in bunches and glitter shimmers on her sapphire cheeks, and Beau notices precisely nothing else. “See, Yasha? I told you it’d be worth it if you let me do your make-up. Look, guys! No more panda-eyes!”

“What’s a panda?” asks Caduceus.

Yasha lets Jester tug her over to the rest of the Nein. “I kept asking, but she won’t tell me.”

“Doesn’t matter!” singsongs Jester. “Because you don’t have their eyes anymore! Trust me, winged liner and lipstick is _way_ better warpaint, for tonight.” She side-bumps Yasha. “ _Especially_ when you’re wearing that dress.”

Yasha adjusts her dark velvet sheathe. It bunches ever-so-slightly on her hips. Beau swears her brain folds in tandem. “I – yes. It’s lovely, Jester. Thank you.”

Lovely, lovely, lovely. Beau’s high-key tempted to thank Jester, too.

Sure, she knew the Nein would clean up well from the moment Jester upended her shopping bags _._ Take her own outfit. Slate grey men’s suit? Blue ascot? Fitted boots to the knee? The only real question is whether Beau will ever take this off. But she was so busy drooling over her embroidered waistcoat – covered with what could either be tiny navy trees or dicks; _thank you, Jester_ – that she paid scant attention to anyone else’s wardrobe.

That was a mistake. She could’ve given her respiratory system some warning, before Yasha stole all her air.

Nott – _Veth_ – nudges her leg. Her new form will take some getting used to, but Beau’s already made up her mind to conquer her instinctual double-take whenever she looks at this chubby halfling with plaited brown hair. Veth’s her friend, no matter which body she inhabits. And she looks nine kinds of adorable in her yellow evening gown, a blizzard of silver buttons adorning the bust.

“You might want to peel your jaw off the floor before someone mistakes you for a zombie.”

Beau sure feels like one. Essek/Thane, the upcoming parley between nations, reclaiming her position aboard the _Ball Eater_ as Fjord’s first mate, Marius and his general air of incompetence… all of that washes far, far away. There’s just Yasha. Tall and statuesque, in a slinky black evening gown that glimmers like the Rosohna ever-night.

A black velvet evening gown with a _slit up the thigh_ that’s going to live rent-free in Beau’s mind for the next millennium.

_Ioun above._

…Yasha, who’s frowning. Yasha, who might’ve just said her name, more than once.

“Beau? Beau! Jester – I think she’s been charmed –”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Beau manages. “You look, uh, nice.”

Jester giggles into her hands. Yasha just blinks. Pink tints the pale powder Jester must’ve patted onto her cheeks. “Thank you,” she says, after a pause. Like she’s speed-running every one of her memorised etiquette rules, in preparation for the party. “You are looking very, uh, handsome, too.”

That compliment makes Beau’s chest fizzle in a way she should probably see a cleric about. “Thank you!”

After which, both of them stand there like utter fucking lemons _._ Smiling at each other. Smack-bang in the middle of the boarding ramp that leads down from the _Ball Eater’s_ bulwark _._

Caleb clears his throat. Beau startles to life. She breaks to one side, Yasha to the other. Letting the rest of the Nein pass.

Can’t ogle each other all night. They have a formal event to attend, an imposter to hunt, and one jackass Lord to embarrass as much as possible. And so, _so_ much, to say to each other.

Yasha jerks her head after the others, eyes enquiring. _Shall we?_

Beau wets her lips. She could take Yasha’s hand. Feed her arm through the loop of hers, joining them like links on a chain.

Or –

“Wait up, Jester,” she calls. Shooting Yasha a grin that comes no way near her eyes. She dashes down the ramp and onto the dock, steel boot-heels ringing off cobblestones. “Thanks for the suit.”

Jester bounces in her kitten heels. “You like it?”

“I love it!”

Even if the Ascot tightens on her windpipe. Even if it’s starting to wick up her sweat.

Because her heart is pounding and her cheeks are bright.

Because it’s been a week since she kissed Yasha in front of the Nein.

And Beau has no fucking _clue_ where they go from here.

* * *

Yasha has no fucking clue where they go from here.

Like, literally. She’s not the best with directions.

She opts to trudge after Caleb, as he always brags about his innate inability to get lost. Beau prances ahead, between Jester and Veth. Laughing at something Veth said. Blowing the feather on Fjord’s ridiculous hat. Her suit is tailored so perfectly; it sharpens her sleek lines. She’s a knife, cutting Yasha’s eyes.

And she doesn’t glance back. Not once.

Which is... fine. Yeah, it’s fine.

Just because Beau kissed her in front of the Nein. Just because they regularly slip fingers and tongues into each other. It doesn’t _mean_ anything.

To Beau, at least.

 _Don’t fall in love with me._ Yasha should’ve listened.

The Nein head through the old dockyard, past the looming shadows of cranes and ships. Everything stinks of brine and salt-mud, dried seaweed crunching underfoot.

Caleb heaves a sigh so mammoth it grows wool and tusks. He falls back to walk alongside Yasha. His fancy new boots are as buffed and polished as the rest of him. If you’d shown Yasha this smart young human, red hair in a ponytail, not a sprig of stubble on his cheeks, she’d never have identified him with the grimy hobo she and Molly met in that Trostenwald bar. He’s come a long way. They all have – but perhaps Caleb more than anyone.

“You’re being quiet,” he says.

“I am quiet. You might’ve noticed.”

Her heels catch between the roadstones. By some miracle of the Traveller, Jester rustled up a pair in her size. Small ones, thankfully. Yasha’s legs are long enough already. She hasn’t acclimatised to the changes brought about by Fjord’s book, and tottering around on six-inch stilettos might give her vertigo. 

Her toes scrunch at the tip of the shoes, pushed down by her weight. They'll ache by the end of the night. Not that Yasha minds. She’s been tiptoeing around this thing with Beau for long enough to feel practiced.

Caleb touches her shoulder. “She cares,” he says, dropping his voice. “Do not think otherwise. She cares deeply, even if she struggles to express it.”

“I know.”

“Yes. But I thought it might help to hear someone else say it.”

That high Charisma roll glimmers through at the least expected moments. Yasha finds a smile for him. His eyes are almost as blue as Beau’s: a little more sea, a little less sky. “It does. I – thank you. How… are you feeling, though? About all of this? About everything?”

That has him grimacing. “As well as can be expected.”

It’s rare for him to walk at the rear of their group, even on friendly soil. He keeps glancing over one shoulder. Like Essek might materialise from the dusk.

Yasha wants to hold him. She doesn’t dare. There’s always been a fragility to Caleb. A crack that might branch out if pressed.

She attempts a shoulder touch of her own. “Perhaps there is more to this? He might not have lied to us of his own volition. He may have been threatened, or worse –“

Caleb’s throat bobs. He’s pale as she is, under this bright sickle moon. “I should not hope for such an eventuality. I do not wish him hurt. But – Gods, Yasha. Sometimes, I think I would rather he was suffering in such a way than that he was truly my enemy. And… and I do not know what that says about me.”

Yasha sure as fuck doesn’t. How does one reassure their friend that his concerns about his _other_ friend betraying an entire Empire are valid? Why don’t they write magic books that boost your stats for _this_ sort of thing?

She just practices her Empathetic Face and keeps clasping Caleb’s shoulder. Until he winces – at which point she relocates her hand behind her back. “Sorry! Sorry. But I think that says you’re hurt. And that’s… that’s okay.”

Caleb nods. The bloodshot in his eyes clashes with his hair. But when he adjusts his collar, his scarred fingers don’t tremble. “Yes, Yasha. It’s okay to be hurt. Even by people you love.”

He leaves her sucking on that as he marches forward to reclaim his usual position in the middle of their band. Yasha crosses her arms over her stomach.

_It’s okay to be hurt._

Everyone tells her as much. About Obann. About those months of incarceration, her body her cell. Some days, she even believes it.

But this hurt is different. And it’s not okay. Not okay in the slightest.

Wind trails cold fingers up the slit of her dress. It plucks her edges, pulling her on. After the Nein, up the steps that feed Lord Sharpe’s manor and the glittering crowd. Yasha reaches for Kord’s emblem. Not there. Right: she abandoned her iconography along with her cloak, both tossed over a chair in her shipboard quarters. Still, she thinks she hears thunder. Hope wells, burning her throat like a dram of distilled Northern spirits. Only –

No. She’s mistaken.

Just bloodrush in her ears as she watches Beau enter. Her pulse, echoing through the cavern of her mind.

* * *

Uludan's house is like something cut from a magazine. Or, y'know, a library tome extolling the virtues of Empire classicism. A columned porch opens onto a huge stucco’d atrium, while a double staircase climbs the rear wall like vines. The function is, as with most events at this echelon of Empire society, delightful. On the surface.

Pretty guests, pretty clothing. Pretty décor and food. Everything is calibrated for optimal elegance. Platters adorn the arm of every servant, bearing flutes of warm wine and cream-stuffed pastries. The air is carbonated with light chatter. The tablecloths have been ironed along the line of a ruler, and lotus perfume cloys on Beau's tongue. It's a scent that carries memories with it - memories of a distant time, when she chased other children through the upper rooms of such mansions, earning glares from her mother. Beau knows these affairs. Which also means, she knows all the glitz and glamour in Exandria can’t hide the blackrot beneath.

Low-down on this Lord Sharpe character? Total jackass. If Beau didn’t despise him already, watching him perv over Yasha slams the final nail into his coffin. He’s going _down._

Tragically, Yasha misinterprets her pantomimed murder suggestions. (“My friends are… getting… smaller?”) The temptation to impale Sharpe on the nearest pointy implement grows tenfold when he takes Yasha’s arm. Like he doesn’t see her cringe. Or like he just doesn’t care.

Jester peeks out from where she’s using Fjord (and his hat) as cover. She lurches into the light before Beau can slip a shuriken from her belt (because Yasha does _not_ look happy; no, she does _not,_ and Beau can nip a major artery from fifty paces) –

“Get away from her, creep!”

Once Sharpe has been dispatched upstairs, Yasha shuffles towards the rest of the Nein. She simultaneously towers over the other guests and shrinks under their stares, squinting sadly at the hand Sharpe kissed.

 _Ew._ It’s damp on the knuckles. Add _slobberer_ to Sharpe’s list of deficiencies. Whatever Jester has planned for that balcony, Beau hopes it hurts.

“You, uh. Alright?” 

Yasha’s shoulders are tight. “I don’t want to wipe it on my dress.”

“Oh – here.” Beau slips out her blue pocket square. “Use this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Go for it. It’s the only part of my outfit that cost, like, less than a gold.” This ensemble is _so_ worth the money Jester spent. Fuck, Beau loves it. These _boots._ These _trousers_. They confirm to her body, all dark silk lining and butter-soft leather, and just – can Jester please buy clothes for them forever?

A shame Yasha no longer looks comfortable in hers.

“If you’re sure,” she says, plucking the kerchief from between Beau’s fingers. She proceeds to give her knuckles a rage-scrub, _a la_ Sprinkle. She holds out the silk enquiringly, complete with new tatters, once she’s done.

Beau pulls a face. “Oh, gross. No thank you. I’m not carrying his spit in my pocket for the rest of the night.”

“Let me,” drawls Caleb. He plucks it from Yasha – after giving her a _very_ pointed look that Beau can’t fathom the depths of – and incinerates it with a clap of his hands. A few guests provide polite applause. Caleb takes a bow, shaking ashes from his fingertips. He brushes against Beau as he rises, muttering “Don’t screw this one up, Lionett.”

Whatever the fuck _that_ means.

Then he’s gone, accepting Veth’s hand as she leads him further into the hall to dance. Beau and Yasha stand in a snowstorm of revellers, swirls of satin and ruffles of tulle. Alone, but together.

Music swells. It’s dainty stuff, all flute and violin. The lotus perfume itches at the back of Beau’s throat.

Her leg starts jigging. Just a little.

“Y’know,” she says, because Yasha would stand here and fidget until Essek got bored and turned himself in, “next time a guy does that, you’re allowed to kill him.”

“You mean, if a guy gives me compliments…?”

“Well, no. But if he’s being _creepy_ about it. If he’s making you uncomfortable, y’know?”

Yasha frowns. “I’m often uncomfortable. I didn’t want to risk it. Not with him. He said he’s one of the figureheads of business in Nicodramus.”

Beau’s snort cracks loud as a bullwhip. “He’s a something-head, that’s for sure.”

“And he has his whole past with Jester, and her mum…” A mournful tug at her evening gown. Yasha’s chin crinkles. “I’m never wearing this again.”

“Yasha…”

“I’ve – I’ve never had a man do that before, and… and I think it’s the thigh slit –“

Beau won’t listen to this. She takes Yasha’s fist, uncurling it from her midnight dress. “Yasha. Hey. Some guys are just dicks. Sure, they don’t hit on you normally, because you’re like, a shredded, mega-intimidating _goddess_ whose sword is taller than they are and that makes their dicks shrivel.”

“…That sounds painful.”

“Not nearly as painful as the torments their dicks _deserve_.” Beau circles her thumbs over the backs of Yasha’s knuckles. Roughly, like if she puts enough force behind the gesture, it’ll disguise this gentle thing unfurling in her chest. “But – look. Just because they’re not bothering you, that doesn’t mean they’re not being weirdos to other women. It’s not the dress. And it’s sure as the Abyss not _you_.”

She’s not just saying this because _hurr-durr, gown tight, Yasha hot_. That’s a percentage of it, but a small one (like, twelve, max.) She’s saying this because it needs to _be_ said. Because she hates it: how Yasha started the night smiling, and Lord Sharpe took that away.

Only… Lord Sharpe wasn’t the only one, was he?

“You’re beautiful,” she says (like she’ll say it a million times, until Yasha believes her). “Whatever you’re wearing. But that doesn’t make men do anything. Men being _dicks_ makes men do stuff like that. And you shouldn’t have to _not wear_ an amazing dress like this, because jackwads like Sharpe see it as a license to get jiggy. You should wear an amazing dress like this because it makes you _feel_ amazing.”

“I – well.” There’s that pink tint on Yasha’s cheeks again. Rose quartz. “I do – I do really like it. It’s… yeah.”

“Very yeah,” Beau agrees. The fabric is carved from shadow. Yasha’s bare shoulders glow like starlight in comparison, and judging by how far up that slit goes –

There’s a high chance she’s not wearing underwear.

Beau swallows. She takes the time to glance around, reforming coherent thoughts. There’s Veth, sneaking up the stairs after Jester and Sharpe. Fjord, blowing the feather on his hat from his eyes, trying (and failing miserably) to emulate the posture of a dwarven sailor, who leans against a pillar, huffing on a mugroot pipe. Essek – no sign.

Beau’s glad. She doesn’t know how to feel about having another friend turning on them. Especially since, to all extents and purposes, this one doesn’t appear mind controlled.

She’s mad at Essek, sure. But beneath her anger, she only finds hurt. The Nein dragged that floaty weirdo into their house and their hearts. They fed him. They demanded pastries. They stuck him in the Zone of Truth for seven minutes and watched him to dip his elegant black feet in their bath. For it all to have been a lie…

Yeah, that bites deep.

Deep as the Nein’s flight from the Laughing Hand’s tomb. When Beau thought the same of another.

Her scar pangs. Just a little.

The Yasha in front of her – shifting foot-to-foot, no hint of a sadistic grin – makes for a pleasant distraction.

“Though, that being said…” Beau hovers her hand an inch off Yasha’s waist. Letting her decide whether to close the distance. “Do you, uh, want to? Feel amazing, I mean?”

Yasha’s supposed to say _yes._ Supposed to step forward, hip filling Beau’s palm. Maybe lock one of those buff arms around her and dip her into a kiss – which wouldn’t exactly be in-character, but hey. Beau’s nothing if not imaginative.

She’s not supposed to back up. She’s not supposed to shake her head.

Just as she’s not supposed to look Beau dead in the eyes, mouth straight across as her Magician’s Judge. Or say, in a tone that brooks zero argument – “Beau, we need to talk.”

Shit.

Beau has fought gnolls and ghouls, poly-eyed leviathans and tentacular fiends. She’s crawled through dank dungeons, cracked musty tombs, and ridden whitewater rapids in an underground river between slathering rock demons. In short? She doesn’t scare easy. But hearing those words, from Yasha? Beau zips up, all the way from her stomach to the back of her tonsils.

“I – I – yeah. Yeah, sure. Talk. We can do that. No problem. We can – yeah. We can talk.”

_Congratulations, Lionett. Only took you nineteen words to say what could be said in one._

Yasha’s expression is tight as a blister. “Beau…”

She takes her hand. Beau entertains the wild fantasy that they’re going to dance after all. But Yasha only gives a little tug to start her moving. Waiting for her to follow. Like she couldn’t drag Beau wherever she wanted, no matter how firmly she planted her feet.

“Um. Let’s take this somewhere private?”

* * *

As far as destinations go for a… _whatever this is_ (Lovers’ tiff? Friends-with-benefits boundary-checking? Yasha isn’t sure of the nomenclature. Which is, perhaps, the problem) the cleaning closet tucked behind a panel on the side of Sharpe’s grand staircase doesn’t rank top of the list. They share it with several spiders and, judging by the gnawed wood shavings in one corner, a rat. The shelves are lined with various bottles, jars, brushes and pans. The party's saccharine perfume-scent gains an edge of carbolic soap.

“Okay,” drawls Beau. She springs away from Yasha soon as the latch _snicks_ shut, kicking up one foot to rest against the wall. Real casual. “You want to talk? Let’s talk.”

Orange light bleeds around the door. Just enough that they can see without dark-vision or night goggles. Still, it takes Yasha a moment to adjust. She finds Beau’s usual smirk on her face. As if she’s made her peace with any topic Yasha wants to bring to the table. Like she’s in control.

But this isn’t one of their games.

Yasha didn’t concoct a plan before marching in here. Even if she did, it’d be useless. Now she’s on the spot, her head vibrates with static, like the distant hum of bees. “I – I just…”

It means a lot, that Beau doesn’t interrupt. Just lets her gather her thoughts and slot them into order.

“I,” says Yasha, slowly, “want to know. That you and I, we want the same thing.”

“Isn’t that what fucking’s all about? Getting ‘the same thing’?”

“This is just fucking to you, then?”

Beau clears her throat. “I – that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what _do_ you mean?”

Beau doesn’t reply. Not for want of trying. Her mouth opens and shuts, but no sound comes out. Like that question slipped a shiv across her windpipe, cut off her air.

Yasha’s being cruel. Tonight is supposed to be a sparkling froth of fun and fancy-things and other stuff Yasha’s not very good at. Not dragging your… _something_ (your Beauregard) into a cupboard and demanding that she talk about feelings. Yasha should’ve done this differently. Maybe led with a few dick-jokes, to lighten the mood. Too late, now. Because Beau’s nostrils flare like she’s ready to run. And her eyes –

No.

Yasha can’t hurt her.

( _Screaming, crying, clawing against the wall of her skull as the Skingorger swings down -_ )

Never again.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters. “We don’t have to do this.”

It’s true. They don’t. This is just what _she_ wants. It’s stupid and it’s selfish and Beau’s already given her so much ( _too much_ ); and Gods, Yasha should be _grateful_ to have her friendship. Her companionship, on the road. Her warmth against her back when she sleeps. How greedy, to even _contemplate_ wanting her love.

Beau swallows, leaning on the shelves. _Pressing_ on them, really. Like she might, with the right application of force, merge through and come out the other side. “Sure,” she says, blowing out. How long was she holding her breath? “Cool-cool-cool. Talking, you and me. Some other time?”

“Please. Just, uh. Tell me when.”

Beau shoots her the lamest pair of fingerguns Yasha’s ever had the misfortune to witness. “Will do. For now, though… Uh. We should probably get out of here before folks start thinking we’re fucking.”

“Oh. Oh! Yeah, good call.” Yasha didn't roll high stealth. She may have tripped over a mop on the way in. People might’ve stared. Between that and the entire subchapter in Fjord’s book dedicated to what people of a certain societal class get up to in their storage closets (thanks, Jester...), Yasha can see the problem here.

She turns for the door – only for Beau to catch her wrist. “Unless… You… Me… Relative privacy…”

Yasha hesitates. But something claws behind Beau’s blue gaze. Trapped, terrified. And Yasha’s never been good at saying no to her.

Even when she should.

“Okay.”

“Um, I mean. We don’t have to, or anything. Really! No pressure. Like, obviously I _want_ to, but – “

Yasha knows.

She ducks in. Waits a moment, for Beau to shut her mouth and focus (blue eyes still so searching, still so lost). And nudges forwards, just slightly. Giving her time, as they balance on this delicate precipice, to move away.

Beau does the exact opposite. She makes this cracked, whimpery noise and crushes her mouth to Yasha’s. Flinging her arms around her neck, knocking her against the door.

It opens inwards. Still, the hinges creak. Here’s hoping no curious partygoers investigate.

Yasha has to bend at the knees – damn _heels –_ so Beau isn’t hanging off her shoulders. This might be an awful idea. It might be just what she _doesn’t_ need, given all the desires that churn like swallowed seawater in her guts. But Beau is so light in her arms, built from wire and warmth. It’s rough and messy, how she kisses her. Teeth clacking, tongues tangling. A bite cuts Yasha’s tattooed lip like a mouthful of glass.

“One sec,” she gasps, toeing off a shoe. She loses three of her inches: just enough where she’s not at risk of nutting herself on the rafters if Beau makes her toss her head back in bliss. She goes to shake off the other – but Beau grasps her upraised thigh, groaning against Yasha’s lips. She pushes against her, fierce. As if this too is a fight, a need to _prove_ something to someone, anyone, the entire world.

If that’s what she needs, Yasha can take it. And she can provide just as much, in return.

She hooks her leg on Beau’s waist. Tightening it, thick as a constrictor snake, heel-point digging into Beau’s calf. She lets her grind against the crux of her thighs as she knots her fist in Beau’s hair and – careful, testing – pulls her head back. Tilting her up for a kiss.

She swallows Beau’s whimper. Catching her when she lets herself sag limp.

Her taste: salt and meat and the faint bite of whiskey. Yasha rolls her shoulders against the door. It holds firm behind her, taking their combined weight. Light splinters from beyond. Gold shards glance off Beau’s cheekbones. Her upturned nose, the scar bisecting her left brow. Spit glistens on her lips when she draws back to gulp air.

“Can I…” She strains against Yasha’s grip on her topknot, chasing the pain. Pupils blown wide; mouth kiss-soft, still hungering. “Please – Yash – can I –“

“Yes,” Yasha whispers. Heat clenches inside her as Beau tucks a gloved hand into the slit of her dress. As she sinks slow as a breached ship. Down, down, onto her knees. “Anything, Beau. Yes.”

High, pretty music purls through the gap in the door, bubbling like a stream. Laughter and voices follow, the partygoers hidden from them only by a thin panel of oak. Beau kisses up the swell of Yasha’s quadricep, as she’s done so many times before. Gazing up at her the whole while. Eyes such a vivid, poisonous blue. A cupful of cyanide, inviting her to drink. It’s perfect: the pinch of Beau’s teeth, the soothe of her tongue.

Physically, at least.

How Yasha wishes she could stifle it: the treacherous whisper that seeps from the swamps of her mind like blue-burning marsh gas.

_This was so much easier, with Zuala._

What a shameful thought. She’s never allowed herself to entertain such comparisons. Not since that night after the bathhouse in Zadash, when she first pinned Beau one-handed to a cheap tavern bed. Now though, she can’t escape that whisper from the base of her mind.

Because with Zuala, all that kept them apart was their tribe. Not each other.

* * *

Beau’s a fucking _genius_ for suggesting this.

 _See?_ She wants to murmur, nuzzling Yasha’s bare leg. The cupboard floor is paved in slate; the edges of the flags groove her shins. _Isn’t this so much easier than talking?_

For one, she can think of a _way_ better use for her tongue.

Beau spends a small slice of eternity kissing Yasha’s thigh. Yasha must’ve shaved with her greatsword for the party (weird but _all kinds of metal,_ so Beau’s into it). There’s none of the rough coarseness that comes from weeks on the road. She’s smooth as cream.

Beau pulls bruises from her. Sucking rubies and amethysts from her flesh. But not all the precious stones on the continent could compare with the tiny noises Yasha makes: muffled by one hand, the other tangled tight in Beau’s hair.

It’s soothing, her grip. Intense, inescapable. Beau’s eyes prickle at their corners, but she blinks any dampness away. The pain’s a reminder that Yasha’s here, Yasha’s staying. That she’s not leaving anymore.

And that she wants to fucking _talk_ to Beau. About _feelings._

Gods.

Beau flees that thought. Squirming in, shouldering Yasha’s stance apart.

She bites a final hickey at the top of her thigh. High enough she’ll feel it, every time she takes a step. She buries herself in her, worrying light against her femoral artery. Feeling her pulse on her teeth.

By the time she flips the front panel of Yasha’s dress over her shoulder, Yasha’s already shaking. Wet beneath her velvet. And – oh, Beau was right about her not wearing underwear.

“Good?” she murmurs. Letting the word break over her. Then _gasps_ as Yasha whimpers, grip tightening on reflex. “Gonna be – fuck, you’re gonna be soaked. This get you hot, angel? Thinking of walking back out there, all slicked up? Looking everyone in the eye, knowing my tongue was just buried in your cunt?”

“Yes – yes, Beau, please –“

“Quiet, remember.” A kiss, to that tender pinkness between Yasha’s clit and her glistening lips. “Don’t want any other guests to get curious.”

Yasha’s thighs quake around her. “Beau – “

“Unless you like that, too. Huh, angel? Are you thinking about how I could take you out there, to the middle of the dance floor? Slip a finger up here – “ A stroke along her pleats. Holding her open, so she can watch that slick hole twitch. “In front of everyone? Show them all how much you’re mine?”

“ _Mm_ – “

Beau glances up. Yasha has a hand over her own mouth. Her eyes are outlined in sharp black liner. They look huge in her pale face as she gazes at Beau, a little baffled, like she’s trying to figure out when she became the centre of her entire world.

Beau knows the feeling.

She loves having her like this. Loves the intense, out-of-atmosphere high of knowing Yasha will beg so prettily for her, wait for Beau’s word before she cums.

Yet at the same time…

It grinds at her. Her inability to take care of this, take care of _her,_ like she deserves.

Fuck. Her mind’s bulging out of itself, circling so many meaningless sensations (the draft across her back; the ache of her knees on the hard, cold floor; her incapability of suffering through a _single talk_ on what she and Yasha might mean, together). She’s a soluble pill, left in water to fizzle away. Beau needs –

Well, she knows exactly what.

Beau swallows. Bows her head.

“Actually,” she starts. Cuts herself off, flush creeping down her throat. It’s simpler, to reach up. To tug Yasha’s hand from her lips and place it besides the one already wrenching so sharp, so good, at Beau’s hair. “Can you…? Do you think you could…? Please?”

It’s rare, that Beau asks for this. She likes to control. It’s deep-rooted, her need to know where she’s heading. Hell – she even tried to govern how she left the Nein. If she’d sacrificed herself to Veth’s hag, that would’ve been a choice made of her own volition. Far better than slow dissolution.

A dissolution like the one she feels now, nibbling on the corners of her being.

Fractures split her chest. Beau needs something to bind together the pieces, before they shatter apart. Something like Yasha. Her big palm cups the back of Beau’s skull. She angles Beau to look up at her: all bitten lip and wild, worried eyes.

“Just fucking use me,” Beau whispers.

And Yasha – after a brief hesitation – nods.

She curls at the waist, crunching over to kiss Beau’s crown. Then straightens, towering like a temple statue. Her thumb strokes the back of Beau’s ear, under the pierced tusk of jade. Not another word. She just eases her in, closer. To where she’s needed most.

Her dress falls over Beau’s shoulder, the fabric soft against her cheek. Not as soft as Beau’s tongue. She rolls that over Yasha, slow as molasses. Petting the hot bud of her clit.

She stays there, where Yasha wants her. Her mind is an anchor, dropping through the dark, cold depths, until it can scrape the ocean’s floor. Her tongue works rhythmic, slow. Smoothing over Yasha at a steady tempo, cushioning her clit on its soft pillow.

Her thoughts ebb. This reminds her of meditation. Only it’s not her body she focuses on.

Just –

Yasha.

The smell of her; musky storms, lightning made flesh. The taste of her: a little sweet, like her mead. The slickness that meets Beau’s questing tongue. Tiny trickles silver Yasha’s thighs, smearing the bunched front of her dress. Fuck – Beau wants to rip it. Ruin it like she’ll ruin her, leave Yasha wrecked and pleading for more –

But there’s a hand on her head.

Such a heavy, gentle weight. Holding her in place.

_Just fucking use me._

Yasha does. Rolling against her, riding her mouth as Beau draws a delicate circle around Yasha’s clit, pulling the velvety flesh taut. Nose buried in musky curls. Again, again. Then back to her steady licks, as Yasha grinds on Beau’s face. Not as hesitant or careful as she used to be. Knowing how much Beau can take.

Beau’s eyes drift shut. Her heart slows, a sedate thump-thump in her chest. Breathing her in –

_She sits cross-legged on the Nicodramus beach, one hand resting on each knee, thumbs and middle fingers forming two circles. Perfect balance, perfect peace._

Down a little. Lapping around her entrance, feeling out her shape, before pressing thickly inside, tasting her from her very source –

_Feeling the world as if it’s in motion around her axis._

Yasha’s fingertips dig at her temples. She makes half-swallowed moans as she gives herself over to it, fucks herself on Beau’s tongue (always so sensitive, inside and out). Warm and honeyed. Gasping her name –

“Beau -"

Arching. Pivoting against her, crushing Beau’s face to her sex.

Beau licks and licks. Her own body is a map of need. Heat rising. Heart throbbing up her throat, down below her belly. She wants to indulge it – pinch her tits, stroke herself. Hell, just wrap around Yasha and grind off on her nearest leg. For once though, her desires drift distant. She sinks into a pleasant haze, Yasha’s wetness a hot kiss on her chin.

Until her clit twitches, her thighs convulse. Yasha shudders. Dress cutting black segments from flush-tainted skin. She holds Beau _right there,_ easing her down from her peak. Tongue a balm. Soft, slow presses, against where she must pulse and ache.

Minutes pass before Yasha pushes her back. Panting, fingers unclenching slow from Beau’s hair.

Fuck. Beau _whines._ Her scalp is on _fire_. It somehow hurts morewhen Yasha lets go, as if every nerve in Beau’s head has been drenched in hot wax. Her eyes almost roll back.

Yasha rests against the door. Beau can barely make out her odd eyes in the weak light slipping past the hinges. Sleepy crescents, half-lidded.

“Touch yourself,” she whispers. Thumbing her sheen off Beau’s lips. “I – I want you to feel it, too.”

Fuck yeah. That’s one command Beau’s all-too-happy to obey.

She tucks her hand into her pants. Unbuttoning them to her thighs, she rubs herself over her underwear. Only once she’s soaked through does she hook the cotton aside, callouses softened with her own spit. She strokes her clit until it rattles through her, too. Until her lashes flutter closed and she has to bury her groan in the damp, bruised muscle of Yasha’s inner thigh.

Yasha isn’t much of a talker. She doesn’t tell Beau how good she looks, worshipping her on her knees; doesn’t murmur, soft and sated, about how well she’s served her purpose. She just tucks one hand around her throat. Thumb pressing her windpipe.

Not enough to seal it off. Just to remind Beau that she could.

Beau swallows. Feels it bulge beneath Yasha’s palm. And – mm. She can still taste her. Glossing her teeth, filming her tongue.

She finishes in a shivery rush. Then slumps against Yasha, her bare, sleek leg the pillar to which she clings.

She barely notices Yasha move – not until that leg shifts. Strong arms heft her up. One cradling her spine, the other under her knees. Yasha stands a little lopsided – one heel on, the other off. But she lifts Beau so easily. Holding her on the level, curled against her chest, so she can press a kiss to her cheek.

Beau twists. She loops arms around Yasha’s neck, catching her mouth properly, tasting metal. Yasha’s never the loudest bedmate, but she must’ve bitten her lip bloody, keeping herself quiet. Because of Beau, all because of Beau.

That’s a nice thought. Warming, almost. A comfort, just like knowing Yasha has her, that she won’t let her fall.

If only Beau deserved it.

Why’s her scar aching, again?

Beau frowns. She grinds her knuckles into it as she and Yasha trade a small century’s worth of kisses, copper spit passed back and forth.

_C’mon, Lionett. Keep bottling._

“You can put me down,” she says, once that sensory recollection (glaive slamming through her, rust shearing skin, the cold _plink-plink_ of teardrops on her cheeks) has ebbed. If her breathing’s elevated, she blames it on the kiss. “I can feel my legs again.”

Still, she leans on Yasha as she’s lowered. Trying to hone her focus, reconstruct herself. It’s easy enough to grin. To dig her nails into that purple ring on Yasha’s upper thigh – the one that might, through the slit in her dress, be just ( _just_ ) visible when she walks. Even easier to stroke up the soaked seam of her – if only to make her quiver – before drawing away.

Black velvet falls back into place. Their vulnerabilities are hidden once more, only for each other to reveal.

“Good?” Beau asks. Pulling up her trousers, latching the snake-eye clasp on her belt.

“I – uh. Very. Are you okay?”

Beau gets the sense Yasha isn’t asking in a ‘are you good to walk or will you just fall over again’ kinda way. “Very,” she echoes, smoothing her waistcoat over her ruckled shirt. “Never better.”

Yasha nods. She ducks to retrieve her lost shoe, slipping it over her black-painted toenails. Turning half-away.

 _Ugh_. This was supposed to rebalance Beau’s chi, wrangle the reins of the world back into her hands. Instead, she has further to reach than ever. Screw this. She’s Beauregard Lionett! She’s badass and strong! She exterminates eldritch abominations for a living. Beau doesn’t cower in the face of her fears. She stands up, she clenches her fists, and she fights. _Pop-pop,_ motherfuckers!

She refuses to let one important conversation get the better of her. She refuses to let it win.

“How about now?”

“Hm?” Yasha peeps out from beneath that bedraggled mass of hair. Several thick braids have fallen from the up-do Jester gave her. They wreathe her head like a broken crown.

“I said, I’d be good to talk later.” Beau shrugs, shoulders spiky. She’s not used to having her arms covered. Her mind insists the jacket is restrictive, though it’s tailored to her shape. “It’s later.”

“We don’t have to. Not if you don’t want. I – it upsets you, obviously, and I don’t want to hurt you…”

“I don’t want to hurt you, either.”

She doesn’t. She really, truly doesn’t. It’s why she’ll pinch her scar a thousand times before she says anything to the tune of ‘hey Yasha, so, remember that time you stabbed me? I see that in slow-mo, high-def replay every now and then’. Not least because Yasha would have to ask what ‘slow-mo’ and ‘high-def’ mean.

Beau runs her hand through her hair, pushing loose brown strands from her face. “I’m not – I’m not _good_ at this. I know you want more. Gods know, you _deserve_ more. But – just…” She glares at their feet, the prints they’ve left on the dusty stones. The twin dark smudges from her knees. “Excuse me for not being as au-fait with relationships as the woman who was married _,_ y’know?”

Yasha studies her. She does that thing with the furrowed brows and the chewed lip, where Beau can’t get an accurate read on her expression. “In secret,” she says.

“Hm?”

“We married in secret, Zuala and I. We loved each other, but we – we couldn’t be who we were. We couldn’t tell _anyone,_ Beau.”

Right. The Empire has never frowned on girls marrying girls and boys marrying boys. Not in the way Beau imagines the outlying tribes do. Entire self-sufficient societies roam the marshlands, where procreating for the future of the people is about duty, not desire.

“But that didn’t matter.” Yasha takes Beau’s shoulders. She holds her in place against the shelves, the handle of a dustpan digging between her shoulderblades (and ew, if Beau gets cobwebs on her suit, she’s gonna cry). The half-light highlights Yasha’s dense musculature. Beau couldn’t press forwards, close this distance, if she tried. “Because we knew what we were. Even if we couldn’t let the world see.”

Now Yasha _can_ let them see. Beau understands – of course she does – why she wouldn’t want to hide again.

That just doesn’t stop fear tearing through her. Not of discovery from others. Just of what she might discover about herself.

“You need to figure this out,” says Yasha. “What you want, with me. Because I know what I want with you. And if you don’t feel the same –“

Beau blanches. “No! No, I – I just…”

“It’s okay.” Yasha attempts a smile. It comes out all crumply. “I would understand.”

Beau ducks her head. “You’re such a bad liar.”

Yasha doesn’t deny it. She cups Beau’s cheek. Her thumb presses just under her eye, brushed by her lashes when she blinks, as if to smear an invisible tear. “I’m used to being the one that runs. So I _do_ understand. I understand being afraid.”

Dust swirls around them, stirred by their motion. Dancing across the beam of light that creeps around the door. It clogs Beau’s insides, gumming up her lungs.

“I’m terrified to lose you.” Yasha won’t stop _looking_ at her. Eyes of swamps and storms. “To lose anyone, ever again. But – but it feels like, like if I don’t say something, I might lose you before we even have something. And I don’t want that, either.”

Fuck.

For so long, Beau has been prising at Yasha, hoping to lever her apart. Like the oysters they sell at the Nicodranus fish market. She’s finally cracked that shell. Not through demands, or blunt force – oh no; this is a wilful baring. Yasha cuts apart her heart, presenting each slice for Beau, neat on a plate. It’s real and desperate and everything a part of Beau longed for every morning she clung to Yasha, every time she muttered _stay_.

And it’s all the more devastating for it.

Because Beau doesn’t fucking _know._

She doesn’t know _what_ she wants.

Wasn’t that always the way, at the Cobalt Soul? The fun was in the finding, not the keeping. The hunt, not the kill. What if it’s the same here? What if, the moment Yasha says this aloud, Beau stops wanting…?

Even if she doesn’t, she’s bound to fuck this up _somehow_. That’s what she does best. How can Yasha (closed-off, _walking enigma_ Yasha) make _opening up_ about her _feefees_ look so easy? It’s not fair it’s not _fair_ –

“I lo –“ Yasha starts.

Not like this. Not in a fucking spidery closet under the _stairs._

(Like that’s the only reason Beau paralyses at the mere _thought_ of those three little words.)

“Come on,” she says. Cutting Yasha off. “Let’s head back out before Jester dispatches a search party. At this rate, Essek’ll leave before we get him alone.”

Yasha shuts her mouth, tight as a lock. She stands aside. Letting Beau open the door and – after a last shaky readjustment of her jacket – strut back into the gold of the party’s false sunlight.

* * *

Would Zuala hate her?

That question bites Yasha on the bad nights; the nights when she’s scared of who she’ll find waiting on the backs of her eyelids. The nights when sleep keeps its distance, though Beau sprawls on top of her, twitching and mumbling nonsense, face smushed into one of her boobs.

Would Zuala hate her for fleeing? For saving herself? For moving on?

Sometimes, Yasha believes it. She always aches guilt-ridden after.

It wouldn’t be true to her memory. Zuala wasn’t soft. Wasn’t sweet. They were both weapons forged from a barren land. Their lives were supposed to be short and sharp as broken teeth. They hunted and they slaughtered and they licked blood from each other’s lips. So yes, Zuala could be cruel as her barbed arrowheads – but never to Yasha.

She would understand, Yasha thinks. The Nein, Beau, all of it. She might even be proud of her. Sometimes, when it’s just Yasha and rumbling storm on the horizon, that’s a far harder truth to accept.

This, though? What is there to be proud of, here?

Yasha grips the highest shelf. She has to let go when it creaks. Her dress strangles her, dampness cooling between her bruised thighs.

 _It’s okay, to be hurt by those you love._ So Caleb claims. But shouldn’t love be given without the expectation of anything in return?

Yasha can keep giving, keep hurting. She has the highest HP on the Nein. She can take the most damage. But even she drops sometimes. She bleeds and she falls and she dies, easy as any other. All pain has limits.

How much would it ache to walk away from her new family? To leave it all behind? More than this? Or less?

She could do it. Chase a storm into the inky swathes of the night. She’s done so often enough before.

Yasha rolls that thought around her mind like a rough gem she’s tumbling smooth. She licks the last of the blood from her lips. Then she follows Beau, into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mwahahahaha. Obviously, the break-up won't be permanent, but I also have almost 50 000 more words of this fic written. So, plenty more drama to go! I love all comments and kudos~ xx


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SCREEEEEAMS
> 
> I finally watched the episode! It had everything. I mean… Beau pinning Yasha down to kiss her… Yasha pretending to faint while her girlfriend fights ninjas…… Yasha going down the slide French-Girls style……… Beau being willing to take things super-slow and at Yasha’s pace, and Yasha going ‘oh by the way I’ve been in love with you for months and also please fuck me under your mirror’ –
> 
> Just. Perfection.
> 
> So! Have a chapter to celebrate! Warning: it’s far less joyous than the episode itself, but ends on a (somewhat) hopeful note.

It’s official: the Mighty Nein have stopped a war. They can totally charge double-rates now, right?

If they ever make it off Rumblecusp alive.

One day in. Already, the island is _way_ less uninhabited than promised. The volcano billows with mind-whammying mist, and a herd of _shit-your-pants_ humongous lizards amble through the jungle. That’s without mentioning Vokodo _:_ the beast who lurks in the island’s bubbling core. Everything is a contradiction, here. A tribe whose god stuck claws in their ears and stirred their brains to goop – but who are, for all intents and purposes, happy. A lush, tropical rainforest that's colder than the pit of Beau’s stomach whenever she looks at Yasha.

It’s been a tense few weeks. That’s all.

The Nein make themselves useful. They patter around the village of Vo, stripping carcasses and chopping foraged fruit and hauling the vast, fungi-studded seating logs into a wider-spaced circle around the firepit. Making room for themselves, in this place everyone seems _so_ convinced they’ll never leave. They try to remember names, though their efforts are stained by the faint, greasy surety these people scarcely recall their own.

Beau cuts wood with the hunt leader, a broad-backed woman who calls herself Terra. They tag-team a log thicker than Beau’s torso. It’s regular, soothing work. The sweat films her palms. She already feels the faint tug of muscle strain, the sort she’ll have to stretch out later, kneading knots from her shoulders with the heel of her hand. The back-and-forth grate of the saw rasps her mind, sandpapering all her edges.

“Does it hurt?” she asks Terra, heaving the toothed edge back, pushing it forward. The big huntress seems content to work in silence, but – well. Beau’s never been good at that. “Losing everything?”

Terra grunts. “Not in the slightest.”

“Really?”

“At least, that’s what I’d tell you. Y’see, that’s the thing about losing everything.” The huntress flashes a crack-toothed grin. “You can’t remember.”

Is this a sore spot? Perhaps Beau shouldn’t have asked so bluntly. Fjord would’ve danced around the subject with a dozen allusions before settling upon it, light-footed as Frumpkin. He sits with Jester, fifty feet off, helping her whittle dicks out of spare twigs. He says something to her under his breath that not even Beau’s awesome passive perception can pick up on. It makes Jester giggle: the first smile she’s worn all day.

Fjord smiles too. He tucks the edge of his cloak around her, to ward off the damp chill rolling off the volcano. Like he can hide her from whatever watches, it’s gaze a constant tickle on the back of Beau’s neck.

Beau clenches her jaw. She saws with renewed ferocity, until the felled trunk cleaves.

* * *

Yasha collects flowers.

That’s always been her way. Whenever her gaze isn’t stapled to the sky (searching for cathedrals of cumulus, for the wind-shift that heralds a storm) she watches the ground beneath her feet. Walking onwards, evermore. Gathering the prettiest parts of the world to carry along with her.

A pity Rumblecusp’s native flora seem unappreciative. Yasha pokes around the central Vo clearing. She doesn’t dare wander into the trees. Still, anything growing this close to the domiciles, where children run and play, must be safe to touch. Right?

Or perhaps the villagers are too detached to care. Addled by mist and that strange, tingling certainty they’re always being watched.

Yasha touches her nape. Shudders. Keeps searching.

Eventually, she takes a risk on a bulbous yellow orchid. Flared petals surround the speckled curve of a labellum, dusted over with pollen. It’s perfume-sweet, a little waxy. But she suffers no overwhelming urge to stuff it in her mouth - so, y’know, bonus. Yasha waits a moment to be sure, stem pinched between thumb and forefinger. Then she takes her book from the inside pocket of her cloak and leafs through till she finds a clear page.

Those are diminishing. What will she do, once she runs out?

Perhaps then it’ll be time to wade back into the marsh. To seek out the Dolorav – whatever remains of them – and ask, at swordpoint if necessary, the whereabouts of her wife’s grave.

Is it trepidation that squirms serpentine through her chest? Or a treacherous relief at the thought of closure, of shrugging away old chains? Yasha doesn’t know if she should feel guilty, terrified, or hopeful. She doesn’t know if there _is_ a should –

“That’s a pretty one.” A gravelly voice to her left. Caduceus. He sits a way off, beside the old Vo cook, contributing seasoning from the pouches that hang beneath his armour. Twisted at the waist, half-turned to Yasha, he offers his usual steady smile.

“I…” The stem is too fragile between her fingers, the collar on her throat too tight. “I – yes. It is.”

Caduceus scooches over on the log, making room. “Would you like to help? Before you go warm up your harp?”

Purpose, direction. She must be useful; existence is too empty a task. Yasha nods. She shuts her book on the flower and crosses the clearing, lowering herself by her friend. The old villager offers a skinning knife. Yasha tucks it under the beast’s leathery hide. She eases it back from the muscle, snipping ligaments, revealing all the pink rawness beneath.

By the time Beau lugs an armful of scraggly kindling to the firepit, Yasha has stripped the lizard to the knee. The joint has to snap before they can continue. Yasha braces her boots on their log, _heaving_ until it gives in a crackling pop. Caduceus takes over from there. He peels off the rest of the skin with little aversion for a vegetarian (although, Yasha supposes, he’s seen his fair share of death). She stands, scrubbing her hands so the gore forms tacky red rubbings. A roll of her shoulders pulls muscle taut, all the way down her back.

And there’s Beau. On the opposite side of the pit. Watching. As Yasha so often watches, in return.

_Your eyes on me. Mine on you._

But no more than that. Not for a while.

Yasha swallows. A hook slides under her own flesh. It’s blue and sharp and inexplicably wounded. She turns back to the lizard before Beau can skin her alive.

“I can finish this,” says Caduceus. He crouches, working the hide off the creature’s clawed feet. “Go practice. Sorry I can’t accompany you today.”

“It, uh. Won’t be the same, without you.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll still sound wonderful. And…” He waves a snapped shard of femur. “Perhaps I can fashion another boneflute, before Traveller Con?”

Is tone-deafness a Firbolg trait, or a uniquely Caduceus one? “That would be lovely.”

Not a lie. However much her eardrums might protest.

The harp is packed with the rest of her belongings, in the hollowed tree the Nein have claimed for their abode. The bone is smooth as slate, cool to the touch. The latch of the vertebrae; the branching struts of the ribs… How the strings stretch tendon-tight, fastened to nubs and notches on the underside of the spine… It adds a disturbingly organic quality. As if the entire instrument might’ve grown in this shape, as opposed to being made.

It’s her opposite, in that regard. Yasha still wonders how much of her was ever allowed to find her own height, her own shape, rather than being moulded to the will of another.

She takes her time. Curled alone by the entrance to their hut, far from the fire, she focuses on the space between the strings, their vibration against her fingertips. Plucking up and down a familiar scale. Trying to dull the matching vibration in her chest.

Is she ready to share this with others? It’s a wholly different matter, after all, to play on a deserted Nicodramus beach, where no one hears her fumble the notes.

She hunches when Jester approaches. A chord jars; her teeth ache like they’ve rotted up the roots. “I don’t know if I’ll be any good.”

Jester's grin is brighter than the sunset. That’s a distant red wobble, barely visible through the mist. “It’s not about being _good._ It’s about enjoying yourself! Having fun!”

 _Fun_. Yes, Yasha can do that. She’s sure she remembers how. She blows out, puffing her cheeks (“Okay, okay, okay…”) and lets Jester heave her to her feet.

They walk back to the campfire together. Sweet cherrysmoke tickles Yasha’s nose, offset by the rich braise of meat. The scent ought to be mouth-watering, but the spit on the back of Yasha’s tongue only dries as the villagers turn to stare.

Jester bounds so close to the fire she’s at risk of singeing her cloak. She flings out her arms, beaming up at the moon. “Give it up fooooor… the Orphanmaker!”

That name aches. Yasha welcomes it. She clears her throat again, blinking fire-smuts from her eyes. She enters the circle, folding to sit between Caduceus and Caleb. She rests her harp on her knee. She breathes in. She breathes out. And she begins to play.

A false start. Her thumb catches the wrong string. 

Yasha winces. Bites her lip. Adjusts her hands, starts again.

Rumblecusp, Vo, the villagers, her friends… Beau, staring at her from across the roasting spit, eyes a bacchanal of reflected flame… Everything fades, swallowed by mist.

Only her.

And her harp.

And her music.

Slow strums, dying echoes. No melody in particular. Yasha just _plays_. Letting it flow through her, fingers divining truth from the strings.

It should be harder, for one with no grounding in musical theory. But Yasha’s always had a head for harmonics. Singing around the campfire was a common pastime, out in the swamp. Her voice always stuttered and broke in public, but she spent many a dull evening between the bellowing warriors of her tribe, wincing at every flat note, nodding to a tempo that sped and slowed, fluid as marsh-mud. Zuala was first to coax song from her. Soft licks and slow presses, canines cutting sharp at her throat. They sang together, sometimes, when they were alone on a hunt. Yasha remembers the thrill of it, how her own voice resonated back from the reeds. Remembers faltering, astounded by her own clarity, but filling her lungs again when Zuala took her hand.

Now, she just hums. Focusing on the swell and dip. The crescendo, the diminuendo. The rise and the fall, natural as breath. Not the crackle behind her, as Caleb adds magical pyrotechnics to the show. Not the slight sway of the villagers, rocking to the rhythm. Not even Beau, sat still as a statue in their midst.

This is a becoming, a rebirthing. She is an island, reclaimed from the lash of the sea. Yasha plays for herself. And though, for all its organicism, the bone harp might still be a twisted thing, ghastly and macabre, an instrument that others might tune to their will –

Oh, it’s still so beautiful.

The notes fade. Yasha lets them. Her song dies slowly. Peaceful as everyone should.

When she cracks her lashes, her eyes are assailed by itchy woodsmoke. She blinks several times to clear them. Then blinks _more_ at the stares.

_So many stares._

The entire village, her friends, the fucking decapitated lizard. _Every eye in Vo_ is fixed on her. Not least of which that dull, itchy sense of _being watched,_ which scrapes teeth against the scar on her neck.

Jester squeezes her knee. “That was lovely, Yasha,” she says.

Yasha’s muscles lock up. Smoke curdles in her stomach like she drunk bad milk.

“Thank you,” says Fjord, from Jester’s far side. “For sharing that with us.” Caduceus, Caleb, the others, even Veth – they all nod. Several villagers, too.

Beau just stares. Like she’s watching someone crawl from a grave.

Yasha bears it another second. Then lurches to her feet. A hot lump of gratitude lodges in her chest, aimed at the Nein, for pushing her – gently, but badgering where necessary – to do this. For finding her again. For everything.

Right now though, _everything_ (the curious gazes of so many strangers, of the island itself) is too much to handle.

Yasha grabs her harp and she runs.

* * *

Beau eats her hunk of lizard slowly. Bit by bit. Not savouring the meat – it’s tough as her boot hide, if surprisingly flavourful. Just feeding her body, while her mind resides elsewhere.

Yasha scarpered. Because vanishing into the night is her go-to method for dealing with problems. As always, Beau doesn’t know how to follow.

She _wants_ to. Feels it in her calves – all cramped, like she’s already sprinting after her. But how can she?

_I lo –_

She cut her off at the Marquis’s party. Mid fucking _word._

You don’t get to push someone away and hold them close. Beau knows jack shit about relationships, but she’s pretty damn sure about that.

A creak from beside her. Caleb lowers himself onto her log. He wipes grease from his lips on a handkerchief, rather than his sleeve. Progress, Beau supposes. He says nothing, as she glares at him from the corner of one red eye (smoke, just the smoke; that’s all).

“C’mon,” she growls, tearing another bite from the cooling flesh. “Out with it.”

Caleb crosses his skinny legs, ankle over shin. He stares into the fire as if he can read the swirls of smoke. As if he’s seeing the quaver of a different inferno, from so many years ago. “You fucked up. Didn’t you?”

Beau considers snapping at him. She considers shoving him away. She considers a million alternatives and more, the most tempting of which being to drop her face into her hands and _scream_.

In the end, she just takes another bite of lizard. “Yeah.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t _know._ ”

Caleb clasps his fingers. The scars on his hands are silver scallops, picked out cruelly by firelight. “So, talk to someone who does.”

He pushes to his feet, heading to join Caduceus at the vegetable stew-pot. Beau groans from the base of her chest. Yeah, she’s dodging this issue. But she’s a monk! Avoidance, evasion – that’s what she’s best at. Who’s Caleb, to tell her how to live her damn life?

 _A friend. A brother._ Or at least, the closest to one Beau wants.

Another vicious chomp of lizard. She debates staying right where she is, out of spite. But that’s petty and churlish and everything else she’s trying to leave behind her, so after an approximate quarter-hour spent chewing, Beau swallows her charred, leathery mouthful and saunters over to Fjord.

“Hey," she says, standing over him, blocking his light. "Can we, uh, talk?”

He flashes her a grin. “We can, uh, talk all you want. Or even just have a regular talk. I’m game.”

Jackass. “Right.” Fjord waits for her to start – then, when she jiggles her leg in sullen silence, shrugs and starts gnawing his meat-strip again.

On the far side of the pit, Jester and Veth assess the day’s dick-carvings, critiquing those they deem too far from realism. Where Fjord’s positioned – it’s the perfect place to watch. Beau bites the edge of her thumbnail, where her cuticles get all horny and tough. “How do you do it?” 

“Mm?”

“How do you…” Beau waves her other hand, shaping concepts from the smoke. “Let yourself hope? When you don’t know if the other person wants you like you want them?”

Fjord’s tusks have fully grown in. They crimp his top lip when he smiles. “If you find out, let me know.”

The heat of the fire beats Beau’s cheeks. She turns away. “You’re useless.”

“Beau, no.” A _clack_ , as he places his bowl on the log beside him. “Beau. I can keep hoping for a long time. And I can follow where you guys go, be your leader – not just because…” His cheeks tint darker, towards pine. “Not just because what I feel for her _._ Because I care about _all_ of you, and you’re my friends. Heck, you’re my _family._ ”

Beau blows out. That – yeah. She understands.

“But,” Fjord continues, voice dropping half an octave. Like all the airborne ash is finally catching in his throat. “Even for her, I can’t wait forever. No one can. It’s not healthy, for me or for her or for our wider relationship with the Nein.”

He stands when Beau takes a step away from him. Not running. Not really. Just needing a glimmer more distance, out of this blasted smoke, so she can breathe.

“I’m not pressuring. This is up to you. You’re the only one who can figure out whether this is the right course. And I can’t guarantee she _won’t_ leave if you decide to call a halt. Because that’s on her. Her decision to make, just as this is yours. Fear of someone leaving isn’t enough to build a relationship on.”

Beau knows that. She _knows._ But…

“What if it all goes wrong?” she whispers. “What about the Nein? Us? All of it.”

Fjord grips her shoulder. “I want to tell you that we’ll all still be your family, and hers, no matter what happens. And I mean it. But Beau…”

She glances up. His yellow eyes are fish-lures. Snagging her, reeling her in.

“If you don’t make a decision, it’ll be made for you,” Fjord says. “I can’t give you any guarantees. No one can. Not even her. No one knows if this’ll work out long-term, or if it’ll fracture apart – you and Yasha, or the entire Nein. But making this choice… Staying together…” He sucks a deep breath. “It’s about choosing someone, or a group of people, _despite_ that risk. _Despite_ the fear of losing. It’s about hope, Beau. And loving yourself enough to believe someone else can love you. And…”

His hand squeezes. Between his grip and the fire and her general state of mortification at this entire conversation, Beau’s warmth ticks up past discomfort. Still, she finds herself hanging on his words.

“I know you’re not good at any of those things,” says Fjord, so softly. “But you’re getting better. You deserve happiness too, Beau. I really, really hope you’ll hold onto it.”

Another pat of her shoulder. Another bright showman flash of a grin. Beau’s captain breaks away, swaggering over to where Jester sits, fire-shadows twining over her blue skin. He wiggles between her and Veth like he was built to fit. Grabs a stick and a knife, and starts whittling.

Beau chews her thumbnail down until she tastes blood. Then a little further. She makes to follow Fjord. Changes her mind. Shakes her head at herself and stalks off in the direction Yasha vanished. Only, once she reaches the outskirts of the encampment – the further Yasha could’ve gone, without wading into the jungle - she’s not there.

She’s not up on the bridges that stitch the trees together. Not lurking around the lizard hide, stretched out to dry before tanning, or sipping from the purling freshwater stream.

Beau stiffens until her spine aches. Her heart pumps ice, adrenaline crystallising in her veins. She’s gone again. She left Beau. Left all of them…

No. _No_. Yasha wouldn’t do that.

Would she?

Perhaps Fjord’s right. Perhaps, after Beau’s rejection, she _should_.

How come that thought’s so hard to bear?

Beau loops back to the fireplace, slow like she’s hobbling on snapped femurs. She runs five miles every morning, yet somehow every step feels thrice as long. She wants to crumple, bury her face in her knees. Berate herself and beat her fists on the ground like a toddler mid-tantrum, infuriated that the world won’t spin her way. Drive her knuckles into her stupid, _aching_ scar…

She’s halfway through the village before she spots it. Barely a glimpse, from this angle. Unmistakable nevertheless: a black boot, stuck out past the trunk of the Nein’s treehouse, a size larger than Beau’s own.

It’s embarrassing how long Beau has to blow to evacuate her held breath. Yasha’s still here. She didn’t run (or at least, not nearly as far as usual). 

Beau jogs over. When she rounds the hollowed trunk, she finds Yasha filling the doorway like liquid poured into a jar. She sits cross-legged, back against one jamb and shins brushing the other, melding into the dark like it might dissolve her. Her harp rests on her lap. She grips the bone backstrut with both hands, not touching the strings.

Beau sidles closer. She leans on the rough bark entryway, glaring back towards the distant glimmer of the fire. Relief drenches her mind, so much it feels kinda like she's drowning.

“Hey. Mind if I...? Or do you, uh, want to be alone?”

Yasha doesn’t startle at her voice. But she doesn’t raise her head, either. “I don’t know what I want.”

Yeah, that seems to be going round. Beau slides down to squat, arms propped on her bent knees. “Well. I wanna be here, I guess. Tell me if you get tired of company. Or – or just leave somewhere else, and tell me not to follow.”

_But please, always come back._

It’s not fair to ask that of her. Doesn’t stop Beau wishing she could.

Yasha says nothing. Beau lets the silence abrade her, leg jigging, nails tapping her belt clasp like a woodpecker’s beak. Side-by-side, they watch the distant sparks swirl up to the stars.

* * *

Next morning, the Nein depart. They soar over dense-packed jungle, coasting on thermals. Each beat of the eagles’ wings echoes through Yasha, shaking her to her dreams, where she bursts from her shackles and flies.

Whatever message the Stormlord hopes to impart through such visions, she has yet to fathom. The thunder only comes at night.

Yasha falls asleep beneath Caleb’s dome that night, watching her light-spun miniature dance across amber flower fields, hand-in-hand with Zuala. She wakes hours later, staring at two tiny women, one with white hair, one with brown. Both are unfamiliar. When she reaches up to touch the lights, they scatter fast as fish-shoals, like they never were.

“Okay,” says Veth, once they’ve all yawned back to a semblance of functionality. “Circle-time. Parents’ names, everyone.”

Around they go. Each of Yasha’s friends – wincing at the blowback of their morning breath, scratching their armpits, knuckling at bleary eyes – extracts a splinter of their past.

“No parents, but I was raised in the Driftwood Asylum orphanage and sailed beneath Captain Vandran.”

“Marion Lavorre! Ruby of the Sea! And the Gentleman, of course.”

“My father is Thoreau Lionett.”

Yasha still wants to deck him. Of that much, she’s certain.

“I don’t know my parents,” she says, hands clasped loose on her lap. Is she supposed to? Is that bad?

She knows the people around her: this ragbag of adventurers who enveloped her in their laughter, their games, the warmth of belonging. Even after Molly died. Even after Obann. She remembers Fjord, sly and charming; Caleb with his burnt hands and fractured eyes. Veth crawling from her mud bath, reshaped. Jester, the rope of giggles and glitter that binds them together. Caduceus: how she was so wary at first, detesting anyone who dared take Molly’s place. How he offered her a patch in his garden anyway, and made her a sunhat, and tea, and so much more besides.

She definitely remembers Beau.

But before the Nein? Before the circus? There’s only swirling mist.

That ought to be scarier. But – well. Not her first rodeo.

Jester is sat next to her. She gives her wrist the smallest stroke with the pad of her thumb. “Your wife, Yasha. Remember?”

Yasha’s eyes widen. “I have a _wife?_ ”

She likes that idea. Something feels inexpressibly _right_ about it. She hopes, whoever she might be (gaze glancing off Beau, because Beau doesn’t want that) she won’t mind this apparent lapse in memory. Or the amount of times she’s taken Beau to bed. Though Yasha knows herself well enough to be sure she’d never enjoy another’s company without her bondmate’s blessing.

She hopes. Given how much time she’s lost, does she know herself at all?

“Who is she? Is she here?”

Caduceus clears his throat. He looks to the others, an unidentifiable expression swapping between them. “If you would please turn to me, Yasha?" He raises his hairy palm. “This won’t take a minute.”

Yasha hesitates. The rest of the Nein aren't smiling. Why aren’t they smiling?

So much of her is missing. Gouged out and hacked out and locked far away. She doesn’t want to remember. She _doesn’t_. Because the past only ever hurts (Molly taught her that; Molly, who went and _died_ to prove himself right); and there’s so much _rage_ left behind her _,_ and she sees smoke scratching necrotic scars on an overcast sky, wings of shadow and bone, hears children screaming – begging – silence –

“It won’t hurt,” says Caduceus. He’s only talking about the spell. Not the truth it will bring.

Yasha clenches her fists, though that doesn’t stop them shaking. She inclines her head, letting the magic weave through her. It revives dead synapses. Just not the dead themselves.

Caleb sits with her after. No words. No contact. Only his shadow: cast on her by the fire, growing and shrinking. The movement constantly registers in her peripheral vision, but not as a threat.

He wakes smiling the next morning, lost to sweet evanescence. Yasha does the same for him.

* * *

Onwards. The Nein navigate the jungle’s dense-packed heart. They hack through slimy creepers, inching their way through one vine-clotted grove after the next. Everything squelches. The earth is damp and chill as a fresh-dug grave. The whole forest stinks of decay. Here though, that scent thickens. It’s pervasive, violating, like a stranger’s wedged fingers down Beau’s throat to make her retch.

It might work, if she hadn’t fought her way across half Exandria. Sewers, sunken caves, gnoll-dens – bring it on. A bit of low-hanging cloud and a bad smell doesn’t raise her hackles, not anymore. Beau holds the sleeve of her fur-lined coat over her nose and keeps squelching forward.

White mist envelops her. Beau can barely make out Veth’s short-ass form. She keeps hissing for her not to go too far; only Veth keeps hissing back that what _else_ does Beau expect her to do when she’s taking point, and that Beau _really_ doesn’t get to talk, considering how last time _she_ went first, she ran straight into the soul-sucking maw of a forest wraith; and Beau keeps mistaking her for passing tree stumps and stubbing her toe when she tries to kick her up the backside.

It’s on one such endeavour that shit goes utterly and abysmally wrong. Beau boots the stump. Swears. Hops around in a circle, cursing Veth’s extended family (not Yeza and Luk; they’re sweethearts). Then she waits for the clapback.

It never comes.

Silence enfolds her. Thick as the mist.

Beau snorts. She scans the clouds for any hint of an incoming Sneak Attack. The mist dampens all sound. She can barely hear the footsteps of the Nein, trudging in her wake. Or the guttural, rock-grinding rumbles from deep beneath the volcano, or the whines of animals in the underbrush, or the _creeeeeak_ of branches weighed low by sodden, mildewed vines.

If Veth’s creeping up on her, she must’ve rolled high stealth. Nothing Beau can do but stay vigilant.

She continues on. Mist seals around her: a wet white womb, locking her away from the world.

“Yeah,” she mutters to Veth, wherever she’s hiding. “You better keep your mouth shut.”

Rot sickens the air. Every so often, the skeletal bough of a dead tree looms out of the fog, bulked out by creepers. Beau prowls along, parting the green curtains on her staff. A wise precaution. One of the creepers recoils. It hisses through venom-glossed fangs – but when Beau hisses in return, it sways sulkily at her before squirming back along its branch.

The animal noise rings out again. It's strangely mournful. Rising and falling, like the whistle of the wind.

Beau fights a shudder. Her mind reels back to a night in a forest to the west, where she rolled off Yasha to stare into the smile of a black-eyed deer. The rot is so thick she can taste it.

“Oi, Veth!” She raises her voice enough to hear the echo. Just to give her something, anything to focus on, in this endless expanse of white. “C'mon. Get your arse back here so I can kick it properly.”

Still nothing. Beau strains her ears. She hears only the thud of her pulse. The squidge of her boots through the mud. That animal moan.

“We’re too far ahead,” she tries. “We need to wait for the others.”

Is that lowing noise closer now? Further? Beau can’t tell. She pads deeper into the whitescape, tracking the direction in which Veth had been moving. Whacking any creeper to cross her path.

“Veth. C’mon. You know what a worrywart Fjord is – he’s like an old woman, I swear –“

_Sblp._

Her foot finds something soft.

Or, more accurately, something soft _finds her foot._

And wraps around it, tight.

Beau’s organs jolt against her chest. She looks down. But the mist is too thick to see further than the blue sash on her belt. Even that seems faded - greyed, sapped of all vitality.

Tug-tug. Her foot moves all of a nanometre.

“Veth, you bitch! This isn’t funny!” If this is one of her spells – it’d better be one of her spells – _please, please say it’s one of her spells –_

“Mmf – mmf – “

There it is again: odd, muted whines. Not a dying deer. Not this time.

The mist plays with Beau’s sense of direction, lifting her internal compass and spinning it thrice above a magnet. Still, the noise is close enough for her to get a bearing. It emanates from –

Directly in front of her.

Beau gulps. She leans into the grasp of whatever’s clutching her shin. Peering into the haze. She can just ( _just_ ) make out a shape. Short. Blockish. Stout as a tree stump. Or a halfling, wrapped head to toe in black slime. The only glimmer of light emanates from the tattoos around her huge, terrified eyes.

Beau’s own eyes bulge. She rams her bo into the squidge beneath her feet, levering for freedom, only –

 _Crack._ The staff wrenches out of her grip.

“Shit! Fjord – _Yasha – “_

The warmth curls up her leg, accompanied by another gag-inducing waft of putrefaction.

Beau swallows valiantly. She sucks a breath to scream –

before it yanks her down.

* * *

Generally speaking, when your lead investigators wander off into a death-scented fog, it doesn’t bode well. What bodes worse? When one of them bellows your name.

Worst of all? When they go silent immediately after.

The rest of the Nein look at each other. Assuring themselves they all heard the same thing.

Except Yasha. Zero hesitation: she dives into the mist ( _not like this, not like this_ ), Beau’s scream etched onto her eardrums.

“Yasha! Wait!” That’s Jester, galloping after her. “You have to be careful! Directions are really fucky, right now!”

“We need a plan,” puffs Caleb. He stumbles over a root, righting himself before he gets a faceful of mud. “Who knows what’s ahead!”

The mist distorts his voice, Yasha’s vision, everything. She can barely see the branches that swoop in at her from all sides, let alone the creepers that string between them, thick as cobwebs. She blunders into several, tears them from their mornings. More catch her, a net of heavy vines.

One retracts, hissing in her face – _shit!_ But Yasha rolls a nifty natural 18 on her dex save.

She grabs the snake. Yanks it from the low-hanging bough, then stomps it into the mud before it has chance to strike.

Jester’s right. She could be running in the wrong direction. She could be headed direct for an ambush. She also doesn’t give a flying fuck. She lost Zuala the night before last, all over again. She’s not losing _her_ too.

“Beau!”

“Okay, are we yelling now?” That's Fjord. He’s far behind – Yasha’s lost visibility. The swirling white devours them all, thick as the whipped custard Jester likes on her pastries. “Is that a thing we’re doing? Because fuck stealth, right?”

“Veth!” Seems Caleb is following Yasha’s lead. “Veth, can you hear me?”

Yasha battles further into the swampy glen. She should’ve pulled away from the Nein by now – she has the highest range of motion. But this terrain is a vicious _bitch._ Takes all of a minute, scrabbling with her fingernails, before frustration gets the better of her. She draws Skingorger, hacking the creepers. It’s not the wisest choice of machete. The giant glaive is pitted and rusty, a walking tetanus risk, and it tangles on as many vines as it slices. Still, Yasha forges on.

“Beau!”

“Veth!”

“ _Beau_!”

She knows this is stupid. She knows she should stay with the others, not let fear be her guide, not venture out alone and flounder into the _exact same shit_ Beau and Veth have found. But her ribs are a vice. Her grip on Skingorger’s hateful hilt runs slick with ice-sweat.

Not like this.

Not.

Like.

This.

Yasha bares her teeth. Rage thuds her veins. She brings Skingorger down in a ragged red arc, sawing through the creepers with its serrated edge. The rotten air settles heavy in her throat. Claggy, like a mouthful of clay. Like being buried alive. Doesn’t stop her screaming out –

“Beau!”

No reply. Silence, but for the squelch of settling mud, the drip of condensation, and that eerie, distant echo. Animals, moaning in the marsh.

* * *

Beau fucking _hates_ being grappled.

It’s never the pleasantest way to end a day. Not for anyone, but least of all a monk. Plus, in Beau’s long and unfortunately broad experience, it gets worse in direct proportion to the amount of slime involved.

Ew, ew, _ew._ Contender for grossest monster-of-the-week, right here.

Beau flounders. Kicking, clawing. Shrieking, much good as it does her with a band of black mucus suckered to her face.

All she can manage are pathetic, crackling whines. Like an animal in pain. Like the noise that lured her out here.

The noise Veth’s no longer making.

Fuck, shit, _balls._ Beau needs to get free. But each thrash only coats her more.

Whatever pool she’s fallen into, it’s viscous but unmistakably liquid – a consistency between snot and glue. She can’t feel the fucking bottom, she’s too bony for buoyancy, and –

Fuck. _Fuck_! It’s pulling her in.

The goo is black as the dregs you find at the bottom of a compost heap. Smells like it, too: a vegetative foulness that wipes Beau like a moist, lukewarm flannel. More bands coat her torso and ensnare her kicking legs. Everywhere it touches, it clings, clogs, _coats,_ weighing her down like tar. Only tar doesn’t usually branch out in fronds like a fungi growing double-speed. Mummifying her faster than a spider, wrapping flies in its web…

Gross. _So_ gross. Did Beau already mention that?

The good news: she’s conscious! The bad news: there’s fuck-all she can do. No clue where she falls in the Initiative round, but her Saving Throw earns her a grand total of seven. The tar-creature knocked her prone with its first strike and immediately opted to restrain, like its stink alone isn’t enough to render the average person insensible.

Gods, it’s _disgusting._ But Beau’s glad for the reek. If she’s struggling not to puke, that means she’s still breathing.

That becomes harder, as the slime crawls over her nose.

Beau’s lungs labour, dragging air through the membrane. She screams, loud as she can with plastered-shut lips. Mind spinning. Legs flailing. Motion shrinking as the eldritch ooze thickens, cocooning her in rot.

Can the Nein hear her? And, more importantly, will there be anything left by the time they arrive?

Blackness encroaches at the bottom of her vision. Beau gives a muffled curse. She clamps her eyes shut before the goop can coat them, too. Last thing she sees is the crooked fingers of dead trees, pointing down at her through the mist.

_Think, Lionett. Think._

Whatever’s grabbed her isn't burning her flesh. Not digesting her. Just… holding. Not constricting either – her lungs still inflate. Though, with the mask over her nose and mouth _thickening_ , she doesn’t know for how much longer.

Veth has less time still.

Beau’s heart aches like it’s trying to squeeze between her ribs and escape. Veth can’t die here. Beau won’t let her. She has a husband and a child. A _family._ And another family, in the Nein. Veth might be a total bitch, but she’s _Beau’s_ bitch. Beau loves her, like she loves them all.

Even Yasha.

 _Especially_ Yasha.

Uuuuugh.

She’s going to suffocate here, drowned in living putrefaction. The trees of this glade will suck phosphate from her bones _._ Beau won't get to tell Jester how she's never had a bestie before; or tell Fjord that there’s no one else in the entire world she’d rather call Captain; or tell Caleb that she’s so proud of how far he’s come; or Caduceus that he spends so much time caring for the rest of them, he should really sit back and let them pamper him once in a while. And Beau won’t get the chance to tell Yasha _anything,_ because she’s missed so many chances before _–_

No.

No, no, _no._ Beau can’t lose herself. Not to this panic, which savages her scarred belly from the inside.

_Think, Lionett._

_Think._

Her head spins. Beau strains every muscle. It does absolutely sod-all. She tries to reach up, claw the suffocating weight away, but her arms are sandwiched to her sides. Her elbows bump the belt loops on her trousers.

And - huh. The pouches, fastened with silver-link chain.

The gunge covers her closed eyelids now. Its claustrophobic weight presses in from all sides. But it’s okay. Yasha’s coming for her. All the Nein are.

_Breath shortening, slipping away. The mucus-mask on her face solidifies to a slimy black crust –_

Beau just has to.

_gasp_

Just has to

_gasp_

let them

_gasp_

know

_ga –_

where

she –

* * *

Top of the round!

Fjord’s up, Caleb on deck. Which would be fucking _amazing,_ if they could only see what they were fighting.

Fjord uses up his movement, dashing past Yasha, through the hole she’s opened in the vines. He promptly finds himself facing _another_ impassable thicket, glutted with mucoid creepers and porridge-thick mist.

“Shit! Uh… Eldritch blast? Can I eldritch blast the scenery?”

That’s a yes. With Caleb’s cat claw pitching in, they scatter the last of the shrivelled, blackened vines (along with any unfortunate serpents) from their path. The Nein burst through, into a clearing –

An _empty_ clearing. Completely nondescript. Just one of a hundred small hollows between the bulbous, maggot-white trees.

No Beau. No Veth. No _anything._ Only a few rings of fungi, red as plague rash, and that inescapable reek of decay.

Yasha grinds her teeth until the tendons in her jaw _zing_. Useless. Fucking _useless._

She might as well be chained again. Knelt in a prison hut in the heart of the Xhorhas swamp. Listening to the slap of sullied water against the stilts beneath and the damp-blackened planks of the floor.

How desperate she’d been. Grinding the weak, rusted link in her ankle cuffs against a rivet. Breathless, shaking. Pulling and pulling and _pulling,_ until her hip _twanged_ and pain shot arrows into her legs, and the tears evaporated off her eyes, and her vision washed red-red- _red;_ red as the blood they’d spill if Yasha didn’t hurry. Hissing stupid, desperate bargains to no one ( _please, Skyspear, I’ll marry him, I’ll forget her, I promise; I’ll do whatever you ask of me; just let her live, let her live, let her -_ )

The chain broke.

Zuala screamed.

Yasha ran.

How could she forget Zuala? Even with Rumblecusp’s magic leaching her memories like sand sieved from water? Yasha hates herself for it. Even if Beau doesn’t feel the same, even if she never has and never will, Yasha won’t let this island steal her, too.

It bubbles up inside her. Magma-hot, burning her throat. Yasha _screams._ From deep in her belly, deeper in her soul. It roars back at her from the white-shrouded trees. Echoing on and on and _on –_

Until it fades. Eaten by the mist.

Caleb stumbles to a halt beside her, breathing in loud, high whoops. He bends over, resting his hands on his knees. “Advantage – “ _pant, pant_ “- on attack rolls, phew, might be more helpful, when –“ _pant, pant_ “we have something to actually _attack_.”

Yasha’s not in the mood. She _snarls,_ striding past Jester and Caduceus, through the hole they carved in the vines. Listening for something, anything –

“Yasha!” That’s their guide, from the village. Villy or Venetius or whatever. She steps in front of Yasha. Yasha hesitates before barging her aside – but only because, in the weak fizzle of light seeping through the mist, she looks weirdly (just for a moment) like Beau. “Please, we shouldn’t split up again –“

_Wheeeeeee –_

Yasha freezes. She looks up. They all do, following the heightening pitch of that note.

A neon-blue light fills the fog. The _pop_ finds its way to them a half-second later. Then the crackle, though any associated sparkles are lost.

Caduceus points. “Was that…”

“Hupperdook fireworks!” Jester claps her hands. “It’s Beau! She’s signalling us, she’s alive!”

This time, when Yasha lurches forward, no one stops her. The Nein are right there at her side: sprinting through churned mud, boots sinking deeper for every step. Yasha drags in putrid lungfuls of mist, hefting Skingorger high. She slashes any shadow in her path.

Beau’s alive. That’s all the strength Yasha needs – if she can only reach her.

* * *

Hurts.

Moving – thinking – _breathing._

Only… wait.

She’s breathing again?

Beau sucks a jerky inhale, just to test it. Ow-ow- _ow._ Like taking a bong-hit where the smoke turns to razor wire.

Her lungs feel _shrivelled._ Her unappreciative moan still sounds distant, half-drowned by the _wub-wub, wub-wub_ of her pulse. Head’s all spinny. She doesn’t know which way’s up. She’s draped over something warm and kinda lumpy, though her spine insists it’s comfortable, curling to conform. Beau might even relax, if there wasn’t still _slime_ glued to her eyes.

She can’t open them, she can’t _see_ ; and fuck, she wants it off, _needs it off –_

“Woah! Beau – I, Beau, it’s okay, you’re fine – “

No, she categorically is _not._ It’s still on her face, and Beau has to get _out._

She twists, growling. Tossing her head from side to side in the hopes she’ll nut someone, because she isn’t done, she isn’t. She’ll fight till she’s in her fucking _grave…_

Only her new bindings have fingers. They retreat – letting Beau reach up and grasp her gunky blindfold. Tearing at it, scrabbling rabid, until her nails scratch skin. Once she’s torn it free, those same warm hands catch her wrists. A gentle grip, but one Beau couldn’t break if she tried.

“Hey,” says Yasha, soft. “You’re okay, you’re okay.”

This time, Beau lets herself believe it. She cracks her eyes, rubbing tar-crust from her lashes.

There she is. Broad shoulders, black-ringed eyes against death-white skin. A stormcloud of grey-black hair. Of course she found her. Beau never doubted for a moment. Or if she did, only a very _small_ one, as she strained to reach the fireworks in her belt pouch, every muscle tremoring, blind and mute and unable to do anything but _pray –_

To Ioun. To Kord. To the Traveller, the Wildmother, Vokodo, anyone who might have an ear cocked.

Someone must’ve heard. Next moment, a battle cry rent the mist. Strength flooded Beau in a roll of thunder. She wrenched her arm from its inky coffin and struck the match.

Now, she has to blink fireworks from her own vision: little darts of false-light from where the slime pressed her eyelids into her eyeballs. They flit around Yasha like dragonflies, a halo only Beau can see.

She sighs, lolling across her lap. Slimy and gross as a newborn. Her hair is glued to her forehead in sticky, black-coated worms - but she's alive, and she's safe.

The mists have cleared – a water-destruction spell of Fjord’s, most likely. The Nein alternately stand and kneel at the edge of a sucking black sea. Beau cranes over her shoulder. It extends a hundred metres northwards, a festering pool that spreads from a circle of gnarled, bleach-white trees. Their silhouettes interlace, branches conjoined. No distinct shapes, only dislocations. Boughs bend back on themselves, fused to their neighbours, an ouroboros of bark and spoil.

There’s something unspeakably malevolent about the trees. Petrified witches, Beau thinks, feeding on the flesh of any who slip into their trap. Those lumps, further into the quagmire – are they the remains of other creatures, who walk this route to the Heavenfalls? More errant travellers, like themselves? Looking at them makes Beau’s stomach twist. She glances away. Searching instead for –

Veth.

Shit, _Veth._

Yasha cups her back as she struggles to sit. Easing her upright. Beau’s grateful. Her abs burn beneath her scar ( _keep bottling, Lionett_ ). Must’ve pulled something, concaving herself, trying to gulp a last breath.

“She’s fine, too.” Yasha points. Beau follows the line of her stupid, gorgeous arm. Sure enough, there’s Veth. The halfling sprawls on her back, chest barely rising and falling. That’d worry Beau if Caduceus wasn’t crouched over her, fingers splayed, eyes rolled back, chanting a mid-level spell.

“Thank fuck,” says Beau. Then, in case Veth’s conscious – “Hey, you shit. Don’t ever do that again.”

Yasha’s arm curls tighter on her waist. “Yeah. Don’t. Uh, please.”

Beau gulps, dry throat burning. Each breath tastes _so sweet._ Sure, she'd say the same of sewage fumes, after gagging on a living compost heap for the past several minutes – but whatever. Point is, under the lingering pong of putrefaction, she catches a hint of ozone. That sharp, electric scent of a storm.

Yasha loves her. That’s a thing.

Or, she _lo’s_ her, at least. Beau never let her finish. But she’s not exactly spoilt for choice on how that sentence could end, and she highly doubts it was a _loathe._

Shame. _Loathe_ might’ve been easier. Because when Beau was lying there, clasped in blackness, lungs burning, casting orisons at the sky… What was her biggest regret?

“I," she starts.

Yasha tilts her head. "Hm?"

Fuck, she's too chickenshit. "I knew I’d make you scream loud enough to give me advantage on saving throws someday.”

So dorky. No way _near_ what Beau wishes she could force from her mouth. Yasha still gives a lambswool laugh, small and soft and low. She scoops Beau off her lap, setting her down on solid ground, far enough from the tar pit it’d take a serious dice-fail to fall back in. She shuffles back, reinstating distance. Like she can't hear how every molecule in Beau's body screeches for her to stay close.

“Yeah, well… You and Veth are family. And family’s important, and I was worried, and – yeah. I’m glad it worked out okay. I’m – I’m glad you’re. Okay.”

“I am,” says Beau, after a pause. “Okay, that is.” Like they all need convincing. Herself included.

Yasha looks at her from under her lashes. “Okay,” she repeats.

“Okay.”

“…Okay.”

“Okay.”

Veth groans, dropping one hand over her tar-striped forehead. “I swear, I’m diving back in the goo.”

Beau cracks a grin. Yasha’s mouth twitches. It feels almost like a _connection –_ until Yasha breaks eye contact. Beau copies, scowling at herself. Both of them look anywhere but each other. For one heartbeat. Two, three, four, five.

Yasha’s turn to clear her throat. She holds out her hand.

Beau takes it. She rises as the Nein regain their bearings: Caleb orientating himself, readying a fireball to incinerate the trees; Fjord hefting a griping Veth over one shoulder.

“Let’s go!” Jester calls. She leads the way, marching on through the mist. “Next stop: the Heaven Falls!” 

The fireball lands. Flames leap from bough to bough, gluttonous, feasting on half-rotten wood. Yasha and Beau linger only a moment. They hold each other's hands longer than they have to. Longer than they should.

Not quite long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, pretty-please leave kudos/comments if you enjoy!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gay feelings abound! Minor warnings for under-negotiated kink.

Night falls.

So does Yasha.

She dreams of black water, blacker clouds. Sea and sky melt into each other, an infinity of ink.

No sun, no moon, no horizon. Only ripples. Those waver out, entropic, flattening to velveteen stillness before they reach her feet.

Yasha traces them inwards to their centrepoint. A white feather floats some fifty metres ahead, curled as if beckoning her closer. The ripples spread from beneath it, then die, then spread again, steady as sleeping breath.

Yasha sucks the stripe on her bottom lip. She takes one step. Another. More ripples ring her. She walks the water’s surface, thunder rolling, rolling, high above.

Lightning forks. It reminds Yasha of the witch-trees Caleb burnt, their branches splayed like skeletal hands. There was something _wrong_ about that poisoned grove. About this entire island. Rumblecusp is a tumour, bulging from the space between dimensions - but this vision is not a symptom of such malaise. It is for her, and her alone.

Yasha stoops to pick up the feather. More ripples germinate as her fingers brush the water. Their concentric rings distort the reflected lightning, shaking it apart. Yasha doesn’t look up, though. She looks _down._ Because as the water settles… As the thunder quiets, as if Kord himself holds his breath…

Yasha sees –

_her._

Dark skin. Darker hair. Eyes darker still. Strong as her pull of the longbow and so beautiful it aches in Yasha’s sinuses, like when you try to stifle a sob.

Years have passed since they executed her. Since they drew a blade across her throat, beneath that jugular-splash of a sunset in the southern Xhorhas marsh, yet still, here she is –

“Zuala?”

Yasha’s first love, her greatest regret.

And she’s struggling. _Screaming_. Bound head to foot in chains.

Yasha can’t hear her. If any vibrations traverse the fathoms between them, they don’t shake the water’s surface. The ripples fade, leaving the ocean smooth and black as volcanic glass.

Thunder growls. A summons – _h_ _is_ summons – one she has never disobeyed. This is another test. Or, more accurately, another offer, not for her to be shaped by others, but to shape herself. Yasha could abandon her guilt. Shake off her shackles. Bamf out her wings; fly up, up, away.

Or she could kneel.

She could part the still waters.

And she could reach down. Because sometimes, you can’t pull yourself up. Sometimes, you need someone to save you, to dispel the charm seared into the back of your neck. Sometimes, though you are free, you still feel as if you are falling.

The water laps her wrist. It shares the same temperature as the air around her. She can barely feel it. It would be so easy to let herself sink.

As soon as that thought crosses her mind, the surface tension breaks. Yasha plunges. A brick, a stone. Black water surrounds her. Or perhaps it isn’t water at all? She feels no press on her skin, no choke in her lungs when she inhales. This is the flipside. A shadowed mirror of her world, linked by a membranous skein that folds over her head, gulping her down.

Now she can hear her. Each scream rends Yasha to the bone, jolting her back a half decade, maybe more –

_knelt on the floor of the hut, yanking her chains_

A sound of pure terror.

_no, not her, not like this, not now –_

Yasha takes another empty breath. Swallowing vacuum.

_Zuala, please –_

This time, she won’t run. She won’t look away. She keeps her eyes open as she dives.

Zuala sinks. Yet the space between them diminishes as if the physics of this world warp around Yasha, bending to her presence rather than the other way around. For every metre Yasha gains, Zuala quiets. Shutting her mouth. Ceasing her writhe in her bonds. And the closer Yasha gets…

The more she _sees._

Those bonds aren’t trapping her. They’re _part_ of her. Fused to her spine.

Yasha can’t see the join (sickens slightly, at the thought). Yet the chains _move_. Swaying like the legs of a vast sea creature. Like the tendrils of her loose-coiled hair. It’s a little nightmarish and a lot beautiful: Zuala, through and through.

Yasha slows, stills. They float on the level, surrounded by intertwined chains. She searches Zuala’s eyes for the accusation, the betrayal, the _you left me._ Finds none of it. Finds nothing, at all, really. Yasha touches her tongue to her front teeth. She has no clue what to say.

“Did I choose wrong?” she settles on. Formalities seem redundant when speaking to a manifestation of your dead wife.

Zuala tilts her head. “You chose.” She speaks tribal Xhorhasian – that jagged, consonantal dialect peculiar to their warband, unintelligible even to others who trekked the greylands. Yasha hasn’t heard it in so long. Not from her own mouth, let alone anyone else’s. “Why?”

“You’re… you.” The old language curls clumsily from her. Lack of practice. “I – I need no other reason.”

“I’m dead, Yasha.” Zuala reaches out, chains scraping. Her fingers, when Yasha takes them, are cold. “You know it.”

She does, she does. But – “You’re my _family_.”

“I always will be. And so will they.”

 _They._ The Nein. They wrap Yasha in ghostly arms, grasping handfuls of her hair, her wrists, her belts. Dragging her up towards the surface.

Yasha holds fast. She clings to Zuala, her anchor, drawn in both directions though it might tear her apart. “I – I know. And I’ll return to them. Just…”

Zuala’s hand is stiff as rigor mortis. “You’re conflicted.”

“I’m – yes. I think…” The admittance is a splinter in the tip of her tongue; it burns to work it loose. But Yasha could never lie to her. “I – I – I’m lost.”

“So seek. So find.”

Is she suggesting what Yasha thinks? “I can’t. I must stay with the Nein.” Caleb grips her belt, Jester her ankles. Beau’s arm is locked across her windpipe, and she wishes she could grab onto it (to wrench away, to pull her closer) but that would mean letting go of Zuala. “I’ve left them too often. They’ve done so much for me.”

“Yasha.” When Zuala shakes her head, her chains shake with her, rattling like broken bells. “You can’t stay because you _have_ to. You must stay because you _want_ to. Not because you hope she will love you back, but because they are your _family_. Because the joy they bring you is worth more than the pain of her rejection. Or…”

Finally: an expression. Yasha recognises it. That small, sad smile Zuala wore whenever Yasha curled around her at night, whispering of futures they never could share.

“You must go,” says Zuala. “Because your pain is real too. And your heart…” She leans forwards, chains slackening so she can rest her cheek over Yasha’s left breast. Her cold isn’t biting. Just the bloodlessness of a corpse. “You are just as important, Yasha. You deserve love. If not with these people, then with others. There are more chances, more opportunities for happiness in your world. I know it. And I know you can find them.” 

Yasha’s lips shake. Her arms float up, returning Zuala’s dead embrace. The blackness judders like a bomb has detonated in the depths, and the Nein dispel like a broken charm. Reflections in the water, nothing more.

Would she risk the open road again? Zuala, the circus, the Nein… Three times, she found something that she never dared imagine. It seems pure hubris to hope for a fourth.

Yasha still feels the pull of isolation. She longs for that strange sanctuary of cutting off everything and everyone so she might wander alone, a vessel for apathy, head emptied of anything but survival. Just her and the lightning-lashed sky. Yet she fears it, too. Days that slide into each other, interspersed only by violence; the sense you’re shrivelling beneath your skin; how you find yourself pressing into every touch, no matter how rough, for want of contact – no one can live like that forever. Or at least, no one should.

But is being afraid to leave the same as wanting to stay?

“What’s the right answer?” she whispers.

Zuala’s hair swirls around them like kelp-weed. It ought to smell of flowers, not ash. “Must there be one? My love, you are _free_. And freedom comes with such prices. Your choice, your consequence.”

Yasha wants to cling to her. Yasha wants to cry. She wants and she wants and she wants, so much more than she ever allows herself to ask for – but she hears the truth in what Zuala says. And most of all, she wants to say what she never could: “I’m sorry.”

Zuala doesn’t tell her she shouldn’t be. Only cups her face, draws her in.

Yasha knows this kiss will be their last. She sinks into her like she’s another pool, a dream within a dream. Eyes shut, lips parted. Tasting grave dirt on her wife’s tongue.

All too soon, it’s finished. Zuala draws back, catching one strand of Yasha’s hair on the way. This curl belonged to a plait, once. The same plait Beau wove her fingers through, so she could tug Yasha down to her level. Yasha unravelled it on the voyage out from Nicodranus: a snapped lifeline, another broken chain. Now, Zuala strokes it all the way to the white-dipped end. Her fetters mummify her again, crawling up her body, serpents of burnished grey steel.

“My love, it’s time.”

Yasha wants to touch her once more. She can’t risk it. Not when she might never let her go.

So, she says nothing. Just spreads her wings.

Thunder roars. Zuala _beams,_ bright as when Yasha first ducked towards her at the edge of their campfire and licked roast spiderleg grease off her lips.

“I’m proud of you,” she calls. “Don’t let me be a shackle!”

Yasha can't bear to escape her entirely. But she won't let Zuala pull her down. She flies. Up, up, up. Bursting through the black water, scattering reflections like diamond dust. Into the churn of tumultuous sky. Each beat of her wings – white, _bright_ wings – burns through her shoulders and back. The storm roils around her, a wave-tossed sea. Lightning snaps at her heels. Its white claws shred her vision. Higher, higher. Thunder bellowing, lightning shattering the firmament so she can burst through, hatching from the sky itself –

Yasha opens her eyes.

“Uh,” says Beau. She snatches her hand back like Yasha might bite. Which – yeah, considering her usual morning-misanthropy, Yasha can’t blame her. That might’ve happened, once or twice. “Are you… okay?”

Yasha blinks. Just... taking in her surroundings. She’s on her back. The underside of Caleb’s dome curves overhead, bodies crush hot all around, and the air is grassy and fermented. _E_ _au de Caduceus-farts,_ Beau might say.

She must’ve sat last watch. When Yasha doesn’t reply, she shuffles away – far as she can without parking her arse on Fjord – and tucks her knees to her chest. “I – sorry for waking you. You were restless. And saying stuff.” _Zuala,_ most likely. “I – I didn’t know if it was a nightmare – “

Yasha shakes her head. She eases to sit. It’s almost dawn. The rest of the Nein crawl through that final phase of slumber, all open-mouthed snores and twitching feet. Jester has starfished, one arm flung across Caleb’s twitching face, while Veth hugs the life out of Fjord’s right leg. Just looking at them makes fondness well up in Yasha, like magma pulsing endless from the earth.

As for what she feels for Beau… Yasha never expected to care for anyone like she cared for Zuala. For it to be unrequited hurts. But hurt is life. Yasha’s more than used to that.

If Beau doesn’t love her, she doesn’t love her. You can’t change a person’s heart.

The Nein, though – what Yasha has found with them, this sense of _family_? It isn’t worth more or less than this burn in her chest when she looks at Beau. It’s just as beautiful, just as rare.

And so, in this curious clarity of a new morning, when everything seems simple and cut to a clean scalpel-edge, Yasha chooses _them_. Her family. Not out of misguided hope that Beau might change her mind. Not for Beau’s sake at all. For her own. She wants the Nein in her life. All of them. No matter what form that connection takes.

Letting Beau go hurts. But it hurts so much less than it would to cut her out. Yasha can survive until the day she looks at Beau and feels no tug between her lungs like a wire is stapled to her aortic arch, stretched tight between them, reeling her in.

She’s just... not there yet.

Beau is so beautiful, lit by the amber fuzz of a fresh day. Yasha can’t help but admire her, drinking her in like sweet honey mead. The gleam of her tattoo on her bare shoulders, the straggly hairs that escaped her plait while she slept. The oceans in her eyes.

She forces her gaze away. If getting over Beau is the cost of staying by her side, Yasha will battle her love every hour of every day. Fighting is what she’s best at, after all.

Beau keeps rambling: “Anyway, thanks for not going full Necrotic Shroud and like, stabbing me, or whatever. And – Yasha. Hey, uh. Yash. Are you… are you really alright?”

Yasha smiles. “I’m fine, Beau.”

It isn’t quite a lie.

* * *

One solid night’s rest and an exploration of the underwater cave system later, the Nein are ready. Bring it on: a showdown with the beast dwelling in this island’s core.

Their plot with D. Turtz fell through (who knew dragon turtles held grudges?) But now the Nein have one arsehole masquerading as a God preventing them from holding a festival in honour of _another_ arsehole masquerading as a God. It’s whacky and convoluted and Beau’s mad because her staff doesn’t hit things at the same velocity underwater.

Still, far easier to punch out her emotions than face them. Vokodo makes for a convenient boxing bag.

Yasha spends an entire combat turn staring into Vokodo’s fiery eyes, sword dangling from her fist. Even in her absence, the battle is spectacular. Heat rises, all of them boiling, cooked like lobsters in the pot. The Nein ring Vokodo, battering him back and forth from the Astral Plain. A final flurry of fire from Caleb and –

 _Whoom._ The beast shears apart. Cracking into fractals, dissipating as if it never was.

Displaced water swirls. Down sinks Vokodo’s treasure, lost to the murk. Another day, another evil defeated. Beau never knew there were so many monsters on this plane of existence until she started pummelling them to pulp for a living. Nowadays, the Nein can’t walk five steps without rolling a combat round against _some_ sort of preternatural monstrosity. That’s what you get, Beau figures, for wanting to travel.

Her team dive for the loot. They sustain one round of fire damage after the next. Beau’s head spins. She’s woozy, thoughts a whirlpool. On her third descent to the sunken trove, she almost doesn’t come up.

The arm around her waist helps.

Yasha. Freed from Vokodo’s hypnosis, she’s a blur across Beau’s waterlogged vision. Takes a while for Beau to focus – she keeps losing her amid her swirl of black-to-white hair. When she finally manages to concentrate, she finds her expression blank and bleak and horribly familiar.

Champions and bellowing crowds. Blood spat onto sawdust. As if Yasha’s remembering the last time someone took her body for a ride.

“You okay?” she asks, anyway.

Idiot. Like Beau’s the one who’s hurting. Beau squeezes her arm. “I’m good. You?”

Yasha offers one of her half-smiles. Her face is all wavery, like Beau’s looking through tears. “Yeah. Good.”

Beau wants to run her hand down her wrist, entangle their fingers. She doesn’t let herself. Wouldn’t be fair. Not if she can’t bring herself to be what Yasha deserves.

Yasha’s hands glow anyway. She dispenses twelve points of healing like it’s nothing – much to Fjord’s chagrin, who manages to pump a grand total of one into Beau. Their ribbing – “You need me to carry that treasure for you, Fjord?” – follows the Nein as they swim back through the maze of flooded lava tubes that worm through the volcano’s underbelly.

Marching order: Caleb first, flexing his photographic memory. He guides them into the labyrinth as if he’s following a thread. Caduceus follows. Then Beau and Jester, then Fjord, with Nott and Yasha taking the rear. The tunnels flicker with the ruddy light of the torchbloom. Beau watches their shadows jump and twitch, skittish as the shrimps that flee into the shimmering weeds.

She startles at the brush against her back. When she glances over her shoulder (fists clenched, adrenaline pumping) she finds a blue tiefling, bobbing with the pull of the tide.

Jester hasn’t been… _Jestery,_ since they landed on Rumblecusp. Beau can’t blame her, given what they’ve learned of the Traveller. Still, they’ve journeyed together long enough for Beau to acclimatize to her base level of borderline obnoxious cheer. It’s disturbing to see her like this: a pendulum swinging between sulky quietude and near-manic energy. In the moments between, when she thinks no one’s looking, Jester curls on herself like a dying bug.

It can’t be easy, realising you’ve built your entire life around a lie. Beau trusts Artagan as far as Veth can punt Yasha. But so long as Jester wants to forge ahead with TravellerCon, she’ll have one monk of the Cobalt Soul by her side.

Judging by her glare, she’s not grateful.

“Did you talk to her yet?” Jester hisses, quiet enough (Beau hopes) only she can hear.

Three guesses, which _her_ she’s talking about.

After that disastrous party in Nicodranus, their team stripped down together so they could stash their formalwear in Caleb’s amber. They folded silks and muslins, smoothing the creases from Veth’s lemon-yellow skirts. Except Yasha, who tugged at the neckline of her dress and pulled faces until Jester bopped over and asked if she needed a hand taking it off. When Yasha relented, letting Jester slide the velvet up and over her head, she was the canvas for a hundred new hickies. Red and purple and deep blue-black, polka-dotting her thighs.

Jester had giggled, until she realized Beau and Yasha weren’t joining in.

Now, Beau hunches. Warm water surrounds her: the sort of light, constant, _inescapable_ pressure that maddens you the more you think about it. “I will.”

Jester’s glare somehow manages to say ‘I’m not angry; I’m just disappointed’. Her round blue face twists (just for a moment) into the sneering visage of Thoreau Lionett.

Beau’s small intestine withers. “I _will,_ ” she says, cringing away. Hating the whine in her voice. “Just. There’s a lot you don’t understand, okay?”

“So, tell me. I’m your best friend, aren’t I?” Jester pouts – thank Ioun. It suits her far more. “You can _talk_ to me, Beau. I – I know I’ve been busy, with TravellerCon. But please don’t feel like you can’t tell me when things go wrong. We’re all rooting for you guys. You know that, right?”

Beau forces herself to swallow. How can she get dry-throated _underwater_? “Yeah. I know.”

Workplace dating 101: your relationship becomes loadbearing. A lynchpin, part of the structural integrity of your team. When you crumble, so do they. Yet another reason why Beau flinches from the thought of everything she and Yasha could be.

Not so long ago, she held out her life to Veth’s witch. She bundled up everything that made her happy, everything that made tomorrow worth getting up to see, and offered to throw it away. Because happiness never lasts. Life has taught her as much, over and over. Beau is many things, but a slow student isn’t one of them. Why wait for the world to steal what you care about most?

“I… Jester, I don’t want to mess up.” The water stirs with her bubbly admittance. It should be comical, but the novelty of submerged speaking has worn thin. “This feels so… precarious. Yasha and I, being together, being part of the Nein… all of it. I can’t let everything fall apart.”

_I don’t know who I’d be without you guys. I don’t want to find out._

They swim onwards, following Caleb. Venturing deeper into the submerged maze. Jester’s tut ricochets from the rocks like a shot from a gnomish gun. “Don’t use us as an excuse, Beau! There’s making a mistake and ruining things. That can happen to anyone, in any relationship, at any time.”

“…Not exactly boosting my confidence, here.”

“But _then_ there’s ruining things by not even letting yourself get to the place where you _can_ make mistakes.” The water may be misty, but Jester’s eyes are sharp as the hexagonal red crystals that prong from the walls. “There’s another word for that second one, you know. _Self-sabotage._ ”

Beau snorts. Self-sabotage is Caleb, not washing for weeks on end. Self-sabotage is Yasha and a fighting pit and a raging barbarian. There’s trauma there. Beau might not agree with how her teammates deal with their emotional baggage, but at least she understands it.

This? She has no excuse for the fear clawing at her entrails. Her insecurity just _is._ And that makes it so much harder to stomach.

Still, Fjord’s words flow through her ears: _You deserve happiness too, Beau. I really, really hope you’ll hold onto it._

 _Happiness._ Beau casts her thoughts back to an inn out beyond Trotsenwald, a deer-ridden forest. The Xhorhouse, the _Ball Eater,_ and so many places between. Swigs shared from Veth’s flask, whiskey-burn on chapped lips. The same warmth against her back when she fights as when she sleeps. Pale fingers plucking harp strings.

Maybe she wishes she’d held on a bit tighter.

“I’m trying to be a better person,” she mutters. “I promise.”

Jester floats back, crossing her pudgy blue arms. “I’m not the one you need to promise _anything_ to.”

Thankfully, Caleb takes the opportunity to scream something about a wrong turn and polymorph into a shark. Handy distraction, that. One sea-snake (snee snake?) later, the Nein continue their passage through Rumblecusp’s central nervous system until they enter a familiar half-drowned cave. They rise up between the smouldering wrecks of their ships. The Heaven Falls crash and sputter, filling the smoky cavern with spray.

Beau’s head remains leaden. It weighs her low in the water. Yasha held her face so tenderly at the Marquis’ party, gazing into her eyes. Like she’d cracked Beau’s shell of bullshit. Like she’d seen all the ugly truths beneath: that Beau can’t always live up to her braggadocio; that she isn’t always big and brash and bold, sticking both middle fingers up at the world.

Worse yet? She didn’t seem disappointed.

Beau drifts closer to the Heaven Falls, leaving the rest of the Nein to argue about how they return to the world above. Why is that so impossible to accept? Why is she so fucking _afraid_ of being known?

This is the _precise_ flavour of fuckassery Beau _detests_ thinking about. Water suckles on her ankles. The undertow tugs her in. Towards the geyser, that great sparkling gout of hot water that rockets up at the sky. And – well. Beau _is_ in dire need of a distraction.

She gulps a deep breath. And she dives.

For all of a second.

Currents catch her in a watery net. _Whoosh._ Up she goes.

Water blasts her mouth, spurting from her nose. It fills her cheeks like a gourd. Can’t breathe can’t move can’t _think –_

Right now, that’s a welcome reprieve.

Beau smacks down into the pool at Heavenfalls’s crest. Ten points bludgeoning damage. Eh, she’ll walk it off.

Her mouth tastes of rotten eggs. She spits. Swills with the sulphurous water (which only makes it worse) and spits some more. Swivelling her left shoulder around its socket, where it jarred off a rock, Beau flicks her soaked fringe from her eyes and heaves herself from the pool. She rolls Jester’s words, Caleb’s, Yasha’s, through her mind.

_I’m not the one you need to promise anything to._

_Don’t fuck this up, Lionett._

_Beau, I lo –_

She almost died, in the witch-trees’ pit. The worst thing about brushing lapel-to-lapel with your own demise isn’t the aches and pains you suffer next morning. It’s how it slices a hot knife through every lie you compile around your psyche. Near-death experiences force you to take a long, hard look at yourself and your greatest regrets. When Beau was under the tar, suffocating slowly, pulse filling her head like the hollow of a drum, all she could think of was letting Yasha finish.

The rock face wobbles at the foot of the cliff. Beau commando-crawls to the edge, peering down. She clutches her staff in case a new interdimensional beastie comes galumphing through the veil between worlds – but it’s just the rest of the Nein. They saunter out the wall _._ A distant, shadowy version of the cavern stretches behind them. Must’ve used Jester’s paints to come through. Losers. They missed one hell of a ride. Beau counts them out: Fjord, Caduceus, Caleb, Jester, Veth. The guide from the village. And Yasha, last through, wringing water from her hair.

She deserves someone who can meet her eyes when she says those words. Someone who can say them in return.

Beau wishes it could be her. She’s just so _scared_ of how much they could mean to each other. Of how much they could lose.

It’s a relief to admit that. Even though she left the submerged tunnels several minutes ago, the weight of the water is finally gone. Beau rises to her feet. She can’t banish this trepidation, slithering parasitic through her guts. Just as she can't turn back time, erase the entirety of the Marquis's party, stitch her and Yasha together again. Some miracles are beyond even monks. But if there's one thing the adventuring business has taught her, it's that you can only run from your fears so long. Eventually, you have to turn and fight.

Overthinking was what got her into this mess to begin with. Beau swears off it. Then she plasters on her wildest grin and takes a running jump - straight off the cliff.

“Yasha, catch me!”

A _splosh_ from below. Yasha must’ve jumped into the water. “Okay!”

She’ll always catch Beau. No matter how little Beau’s done to deserve her.

The fall shreds such ugly thoughts to cirrus cloud. Wind shrills in Beau’s ears, whistling cold between her teeth. She plummets, rolling mid-air (thank you, Dope Monk Shit), pressing a hand to her forehead like a swooning lady from one of Jester’s erotica novels. Ready for the impact, the quiet _oof_ as Yasha takes her weight.

Only for Yasha to yell “What’s that over there?”

A low, heavy _fwoom, fwoom, fwoom_ fills the air _._ Beau can’t twist far enough to see. Not enough time –

Steel locks under her legs and around her back. Beau lands in the cradle of Yasha’s arms.

Several metres higher than expected.

Beau unpeels her eyelids. She stares up into Yasha’s face. Yasha, who looks as amazed as Beau. And who has fuck-ass _ginormous_ wings sprouting from her back.

White, feathered wings. Wings that _glow._ A golden radiance, like distant starlight. They beat steadily, carving the spray. Holding them aloft.

“Gods,” breathes Beau. Still staring. She’s not sure she’ll ever stop. “This – this is incredible.”

“Well,” says Yasha. The underwater fight washed her free of kohl and warpaint. Dark pigmentation stripes her neck. Beau wants to kiss and kiss and kiss, cover her tongue in its chalky taste, until there’s only Yasha. “I, uh. I didn’t know that would happen.”

Her distraction did bugger-all. The Nein stand below, sharing the same expression: namely, a wholly unflattering gawp. Beau shuts her mouth. Heart pounding. Lips dry.

“Holy fuck,” she says, tangling her fingers in the white tips of Yasha’s hair.

Yasha’s smile wobbles across her face. Tentative, small. Then she breaks into a grin. A proper grin, unburdened by any of those chains she drags around with her, guilt and grief and fear. Beau can’t help but match it.

They’re flying. They’re really, _genuinely_ flying.

Yasha’s wings are pure power. Wind flips Beau’s damp hair from her face as Yasha ascends, bearing Beau along with her. They’re not so high Beau’s breath should shorten. Still, she gasps as she clings to Yasha, delight pouring into her chest, frothy and thick.

Yasha’s an angel. A real fucking _angel._ But she doesn’t look so far away she should be breathing stratosphere. She’s here, right here. And no matter the rift between them, she’s still holding Beau in her arms.

* * *

She’s _flying_.

Not just in dreams. For _real._

Held breath buoys her up. Her wings – they’re whole.

 _Whole again,_ whispers a voice. She’s not sure whose. They’ve been broken for as long as she can remember. But Yasha knows better than to trust her memories, nowadays.

Up, she lifts. Up, _up._ The thunder in her ears is her own pulse. Maybe that’s what the Stormlord was teaching her, all along. So infinite in his patience, even with as poor a student as herself. This power, the writhing fury of her hurricane, it’s not something he bestows. It has been inside her all along. Inscribed in her flesh, the very thump of her heart.

Yasha understands. She laughs, bright and loud and giddy and free.

 _Don’t let me be your shackles._ Zuala. Molly. Obann, grasping tight at her throat. Yasha shakes them all away. She lets them fall. Zuala: smiling. Molly: laughing. Obann: to be punished in the Abyss forevermore.

Her first breath unbound is a rebirth. Like playing her harp by the fire, all over again – although this time, the song doesn’t end. Her wings are lightning and moonlight. If it wasn’t for Beau, she could fly higher and higher, through the thinning pearlescence of the clouds, to find those stars of her ancestors. But Yasha doesn’t want any form of ascension. Not when she could have _this._

Beau. Staring at Yasha like she’s magic incarnate. She’s the one shackle Yasha lovingly collars around her own neck. Wilfully, determinedly, tethering herself to earth.

“This is incredible,” she says. “ _You’re_ incredible.”

For once, Yasha allows herself to agree.

Then –

_Boof._

Beau’s eyes go wide.

Yasha’s go wider.

The wings vanish. Their afterimage shimmers a moment in Yasha’s peripherals. Fading, insubstantial as a mirage.

Gravity sucks them down. Yasha isn’t afraid. Not of the pools at the top of the falls, which swell up to greet them, or of whatever comes next.

Beau locks legs on her waist. She twists, a flex of lithe muscle, aiming them for one of the deeper, darker ponds at the tip of the geyser’s spout. Still grinning, teeth bared into the wind.

Crashdown. The splash empties half the pool. Yasha and Beau tangle in the remaining water, a knot of legs and arms. Wincing at their newly accrued points of bludgeoning damage. But still smiling. Smiling at each other, like they’ve woken from a dream.

Only Yasha’s wide awake. The wings on her back aren’t a God-granted vision – they’re _real._ Even if only for a minute.

Zuala blows her a kiss, from so far away. She walks into a meadow of flowers, spangle-studded with dew. Chains drag furrows through the wet earth behind her. A part of Yasha will always yearn to give chase. A far larger part wants to kiss Beau until she’s breathless as Yasha feels.

Beau beats her to it. She crashes into her, as hard as they hit the water. Teeth against lip against teeth, like she wants to bite on and never let go. She tugs her belts until Yasha moves where she wants her: knelt over Beau’s lap, not quite daring to lower her weight. The water settles slowly, rippling against her waist. Spray from the geyser glitters over them. Droplets bead Beau’s lashes. She holds Yasha like she’s too big for her to grasp, like she can’t figure out where to touch: groping her thighs, dragging nails down her back like she’s searching for feathers. Biting fierce, furious, _desperate_ kisses, all the way down her neck.

Yasha keens, quiet. Knowing this is wrong. Yearning, all the same.

Fingers splay across her soaked shoulderblades, warm as her wings. Sparks dance behind her eyes like Caduceus’s dragonflies, and Beau’s blunt teeth graze the throb beneath her jaw –

“Guys?” Fjord’s voice floats up from below. “Are you alive up there?”

A distant laugh – Jester. “They’re obviously having sex.”

“It’s literally been a minute since they landed!”

“Don’t underestimate them,” is Veth’s advice.

That has Beau pulling back – no, _no;_ Yasha craves all of her: her touch, her orders, the pain promised by each bite. Her smile is a sunbeam, and the light glistens off her wet brow like she’s carved from topaz, and – _Gods –_ her hands slip down Yasha’s back, mapping the curve of her, to squeeze, hot and firm, at her arse.

“We’re alive!” Beau hollers to their friends. “And not fucking!”

“Yet!” calls Jester.

Faint laughter drifts up to them. Yasha still feels overwhelmed by the last few minutes. She struggles to get her head around the enormity of what just happened (her wings, her _wings_ ) _._ But despite this hot pulse of desire inside her, she can’t laugh along.

A little over a fortnight has elapsed since the party. Two and a half weeks since Yasha stepped from a dusty cupboard, numb as the stone beneath her feet. This: Beau’s slow palming of her backside, the smirk in her eyes as she looks up at Yasha (like she’s a holy thing, like Beau wants to defile her and drink from her sacramental cup and taste her blessings all at once) – it’s the worst torment Yasha’s known.

She told herself she was letting go. Didn’t she? Beau doesn’t want what she wants. Yasha can do nothing but accept it. If this is a half measure, physicality with nothing beneath, that's so much _worse_ than never knowing her touch at all.

“Yet,” Beau echoes.

Her lashes are long and dark. Teeny-tiny water droplets glitter on their tips. She looks through them, to Yasha.

She _can’t_. Not again.

Yasha lurches to her feet. She breaks Beau’s grip, staggering away.

“We should head back down,” she says, squeezing streams from her hair. Then sets off to prove she means it, sploshing around the shallow outskirts of the pool. A touch of warmth has returned to the island, though the moisture on her neck still catches the breeze. If she keeps moving, she’ll warm up. Then she'll stop shaking. She’ll stop shaking, right?

“Wait! Shit, Yasha – wait!”

Yasha does the exact opposite. She clambers up the pool’s inclined edge, onto the rocky promontory.

Beau scrambles after her. The Heavenfalls spout in the background, hurling blasphemously up towards the celestial plane. Perhaps Yasha should’ve followed their trajectory after all, high enough that when she fell she wouldn’t feel the landing.

“Yasha…”

Beau catches up as Yasha meets the treeline, ducking between lichen-crusted bushes, vibrant shrubs. The plant life of Rumblecusp is as strange as it’s dangerous. Everything is just a little too vivid, like she’s seeing the world through an animal’s eyes: the grass acid-green, the fungi phosphorescent. But today, even the jungle seems dulled, diluted.

This pain in her chest – it’s pure selfishness. She shouldn’t _want_ so much.

Five-petalled pink blossoms squish under her boots. They release a sticky perfume, between jasmine and rose. Yasha’s soggy clothes clasp her body. Her footfalls are almost silent, cushioned by leaf-mulch. She remains hyperaware of Beau’s breath behind her; the faint rustle of her sleeve as she reaches out to catch her hand, then changes her mind.

“Yasha. Just… Just give me a moment, okay? Please?”

Yasha could walk forever. Into the next storm, on and on, until her legs snap and her body crumbles to dust. But she knows how much Beau dislikes begging. Her footfalls lurch to a halt.

Beau stops too, a few feet behind. “I’m glad,” she says, into the long pause, “that you got your wings back.”

Yasha stares straight ahead. “Thank you.”

“Yeah. I mean, you can fly. That’s – that’s amazing. You could go anywhere you wanted in the entire world.”

“Not really. I can only fly for a minute.”

Beau doesn’t reply. When Yasha turns, she finds her glaring at the ground. The trees have closed behind them, cutting them off from the sky.

Yasha sighs. Even if Beau doesn’t feel the same way Yasha does, there’s more than one way to love a person, and Yasha has never once doubted that she cares. “Beau, I’m right where I want to be.” _How many times do I have to repeat it, before you believe it? That I won’t run again? Or at least, that I’ll always come back?_

Always once more, it seems. Perhaps Yasha deserves that, after everything.

Beau’s face is dusky-red. She won’t meet Yasha’s eyes. “Yeah, well. I’m real happy for you.”

Yasha is, too. She’s delighted to have her wings back. To finally, after so long, feel _free._ Of her past, of her misdeeds, of the blood that coats each hand. But Beau’s alleged happiness doesn’t reach her face, and Yasha’s willing to bet hers doesn’t, either.

She tucks her arms around her torso. Silence settles over them. Beau breaks it, rocking boot heels into the mulch. “I – I’m not weak. Yasha, you know that, right?”

Well… 10 strength. But that’s not what Beau means. “I still don’t want to hurt you.”

Beau spreads her arms like she’s inviting Yasha to take a swing. “I can handle it. You _know_ I can handle it. It’s a fucking insult to pretend otherwise – so _ask._ ”

She shouldn’t. Not when Beau doesn’t want to hear it. Not when she might cut her off again, walk away. Beau isn’t the only one risking pain.

Sometimes though, you have to take a little risk. You have to kiss your fellow huntress between the reeds as night steals over your camp, soft as stolen touches. You have to offer your travelling companion your bed and body, and not drown in guilt if one night turns to several. You have to keep reaching for that flame. Even after you’ve been burned.

“Can you love me?” Yasha asks.

Beau must’ve braced in preparation. Not a single twitch. “I don’t know.”

That hits like a Stunning Strike to the solar plexus. “Oh. Uh. Okay.”

“But…” Beau’s arms drop slow to her sides. Her fists curl into the wet fur of her coat. “I can sure as fuck try. And I want to love you, and I don’t ever want to be without you. Can you – can you trust that?”

 _I don’t ever want to be without you._ Those words cut Yasha’s throat like swallowed teeth.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “I mean – I can sure as fuck try, too.” _Whether as lovers or friends, I want to be by your side for as long as we have left._

Beau’s chin goes wobbly. She steps forward, stumbling on the uneven ground – though she’s a monk and monks don’t, as a rule, do that. Yasha’s there to catch her. She nods before Beau can finish garbling out her question (“Is this okay, is this, are you –“).

Beau doesn’t stand again, though. Not properly. Her knees bend, arms looped firm around Yasha’s neck. Tugging her down, eyes a liquid plead for Yasha to follow.

Yasha hesitates. Only for a moment – remembering that dusty cupboard, the strangulation of her dress.

 _I lo -_

Words dropped to shatter like a wineglass.

But she wants this more than she fears that. Slowly, she lets herself sink.

Beau’s back meets the blanket of fallen leaves. It’s a softer landing than their splashdown into the pool. Yasha makes sure of it, one arm tucked around her. Keeping her close. Wanting her impossibly closer. She straddles her legs again, no fear. Beau can take her weight. She can take all of her. Or at least, she’s going to _try,_ and Gods, if that doesn’t mean as much as another confession, whispered on a mossy branch stretching out across the swamp, so very long ago.

Beau hooks fingers into her belts as Yasha pushes her prone, crawling over her, kissing under her jaw. “Oh, o- _kay._ Are we having sex now?”

Right. That’s a thing they should both establish. “Um. Please? I mean, if you want. I – I need you. A lot. Or…” Her pale hair hangs around them, a wavy curtain. Yasha tucks the unravelled braid behind her ear. “We can totally just cuddle. Or whatever you need right now?”

Beau laughs. Higher than usual, like she’s drunk. “Nah, I’m good with sex.”

“I – yes. You are. Very good.”

“Ha. Thanks for the starred review.”

She winds her fingers into that same curly strand, tugging sharp. _There._ Yasha feels herself loosen, tension slithering from her spine. Just... not all the way. She doesn’t resist it. Not exactly. But she doesn’t give herself over to it, either.

Can she do this again, so soon? _Trust_ her again, _be_ hers again?

The doubt must show on her face, because Beau’s grip loosens. “I – sorry. Should’ve checked in. Are you okay with this? Y’know.” A waggle of Beau’s head. “Our usual?”

Yasha wants to be. Is that enough? “I think…?”

“You can tell me if not. Or – anything. Tell me what you need right now? Please?”

There’s that desperate look, like Beau’s clinging to something as it slips away. Yasha wants it banished from her features. She’ll be hers for as long as Beau will have her – for as long as she’ll keep trying. Because Beau wouldn’t lie about the way she feels. And when she loves, she does it with all her heart.

Yasha lets her shoulders sink. “I,” she says, settling firmer on Beau (grinding down, just a touch; the smallest shimmy of her hips) – “I want you to fuck me, Beau.”

It thrills low inside her, watching Beau’s expression twist at the impact of those words. Her nostrils flare on her inhale, tongue darting out to dampen her lips. “I – yes. Thank you – I…” She winds Yasha’s hair around her fist again. This time, Yasha tilts into the pressure, eyes sliding half-shut. “You want me to take care of you, angel?”

More than she needs to breathe. “ _Please.”_

“Rough?” Beau crunches up, Yasha shuffling back to let her sit. She nips sharp at her neck, turning Yasha’s gasp to a stutter, a whine. “Or…” Beau licks that same bite, kitten-soft. “Sweet?”

Yasha’s thighs would rub, if Beau wasn’t between them. “Rough,” she manages, and Beau’s pupils expand like they’re swallowing the oceans of each iris.

“ _Fuck_ yes. Want me to bully you? Scratch your back, slap your cunt?”

Yasha’s entire body twitches at the thought. “I – anything. But hold me after. Please?”

“Always.” Beau’s smile isn’t a performance. There’s something there, deeper than the usual swagger and smirk, which reaches between Yasha’s ribs and closes its fist. “I got you, Yash.”

She does. Yasha will always catch her, even if Beau hardly ever takes drop damage. But when Beau holds her like this, she can freefall too. Weightless. No more shackles, no more chains. Only Beau’s touch: hard fingers, soft tongue. The Bunsen-blue burn of her gaze.

Yasha can’t express how much that means. How desperately, devotedly grateful she is. How little she feels like she deserves this (Beau’s kisses, her kindness, her willingness to lead Yasha down). But that revelation from the Heavenfalls still hums inside her, her spine a harp string. It sings of the chance – just the slimmest possibility _–_ that she isn’t a damned thing, destined to the Abyss, to suffer under Obann for all eternity. Maybe she can have herself a little happiness under Beau instead.

“Right,” says Beau. She peels any softness from her voice, unsheathing the blade beneath. “Get me off, then. Nice and fast. I want to focus on you after.”

Yasha nods. She crawls further down Beau’s legs, fumbling at the knots on her waist drawstring. It’s a torment, to constrain her strength. Still, if Beau has to hold her trousers up when they return to the group, neither of them will be allowed to forget it, with or without Rumblecusp’s mists.

Yasha unpicks the knot, wrestling Beau’s trousers down. That thin piece of cotton hugs between her legs – _underwear;_ Yasha’s never understood the point. Still, Beau makes the loveliest noises when Yasha strokes her through it. Up and down, around her clit without ever nudging. As if the fabric muffles everything, turning Yasha’s sword-hardened touch to tickles.

“Mm.” The hand in her hair tightens. “Good girl, just like that. Learning my body so well. So hungry to please me, aren’t you?”

 _Hungry._ That’s one way of putting it. Heat curls in her belly, strokes her insides. “Please…” Yasha ducks, breathing over that moist fabric strip. She pins Beau’s hips when they lurch up to meet her. “Please, can I – Beau – “

“So sweet, when you beg.” Beau’s underwear already clings wetly to her cunt. She hooks it on one finger, draws it aside. Revealing herself – plump, crinkled lips; long labia. Slick-glossed, just a little swollen. “Go on, beautiful. I think you’ve earned a taste.”

Yasha sighs, lashes quivering half-closed. She leans in.

Beau is salt and sour. Just a little musky. Like licking the leather of her gloves. Those same gloves caress her. One on her crown, holding her in place; the other sweeping over her back, where wings should be.

“Touch yourself.” Beau’s voice is gravel and grit. “Get yourself close. You know how I like you. All soaked and clenching for me.”

Yasha pulses at the thought. She pushes onto her knees so she can tuck a hand against herself. Nuzzling into Beau, filling her senses with her taste, her scent.

Doesn’t take long to work herself up. Her whole body’s starving. When she strokes the seam of her trousers the leather slides against her, soft with her slick. The rhythm’s clumsy at first. Yasha falters each time she grinds against her fingertips. But she eases into it, laving Beau with the soft her tongue, gliding across the tight, swollen nub of her, over and over.

Beau flops back, all indolence. She hooks her calves on Yasha’s shoulders. Groaning into each rolling lick.

Time falls from Yasha. Her mind slides liquid. There’s nothing but this rhythm: her mouth on Beau, her fingers on herself. She doesn’t know how long passes before Beau jerks.

 _Close_. Yasha reads it in the thrust of her hips, the dig of her heels into her back. She moans so beautifully when Yasha licks her long-ways, slit to clit, pulling her soaked lips apart.

“Y-Yasha. Yash?”

“Mm?” Kinda hard to respond. Fuzzy black curls tickle her nose. Beau grinds up, smearing herself on her chin.

“Keep – mm. Keep touching your cunt, angel.” Beau’s husky like she snuck a swig from Veth’s flask. A glance up her body (past taut abdomen, heaving chest) and Yasha catches the flash of her grin. “But don’t you _dare_ cum.”

Yasha nods. Her thoughts feel hot and runny, like they might dribble out her ears. It’s hard to concentrate. Hard to keep a steady tempo as she holds herself back, fighting the throb inside her, determined not to lose herself.

So worth it though. Beau bucks hard against her. Only takes three more licks to lock her up, jaw clenched, fist tight in Yasha's hair. She’s a sculpture of pleasure, carved by Yasha’s tongue. Beau holds Yasha _there,_ fluttering her tongue-tip against her, fast and relentless. Then all her rigidity drains.

She slumps on the leaf litter, sucking huge breaths. Her body is a spasm of tension and release, and she absently pets Yasha's hair and blinks at the faraway canopy like she’s remembering how to see. “Fuck – _yes_. Baby, angel. Good girl, so good…”

Each word strokes Yasha’s spine. She presses into her, greedy for a last taste, then withdraws, knowing Beau gets tender after. Her turn to gasp, her turn to shake. She rests her damp face on Beau’s thigh as she rocks against her hand, tucked tight between her legs. Pressing two-fingered behind her clit, where the sensation’s softer, less blistering.

She whines, hearing the sound more than she registers making it. The seam of her trousers chews tight between her folds.

No cumming. Beau’s trying to love her, isn’t she? She must be good; _she must be good._

Beau must swim back to herself at some point. She slips her underwear into place – then pulls a face and hooks it aside again, mopping the excess on the flat of her palm. She smirks at Yasha, blissed out and lazy. Stretching her lean brown legs. “How you doing there, angel?”

Yasha can’t reply. Can’t choke out anything but desperate, subvocal noises.

Beau sits. She cups Yasha’s face, thumbing wetness from her underlip. Then sucks it off her glove, giving herself a taste, and – _fuck._ Looking right into Yasha’s eyes.

Yasha feels herself _clench_. Beyond soft-slicked leather, where she can’t reach.

“Mm.” Beau’s eyes glitter. She gives her spit-shone glove another lick, then pulls the loose curls from that old braid. Tugging Yasha up, so she sits on her heels with her thick thighs spread. Still rubbing herself over her clothes. Her hips pivot, hungry for more. “That’s it. Good slut. Keep yourself all pretty and worked up.”

Beau’s voice – fuck, Beau’s _voice._ No one else would dare talk to her like this, take her like this, call her pretty and needy and a million other things Yasha so rarely allows herself to be. But _Gods_ , if it doesn't leave Yasha _pulsing_.

She moans, circling in sharp, shuddery motions. Too rough, too fast, then suddenly slow. She yearns to chase this burgeoning pleasure, but she can’t, won’t. Not until Beau gives permission…

“You like that?”

Yasha nods. Her body rolls helpless, moved by muscle, not mind. She’d be fucking herself on her fingers if her trousers weren’t in the way. Beau must see it, must know she’s wet and quaking and ready, and _fuck_ , she doesn’t know if she wants this torture to stop or last forever.

If Beau would only touch her – kiss her breasts, kiss her anywhere – it’d be all Yasha needs. But she just _watches._ Smirk hooking the scar on her cheek. Even as Yasha arches her back and moans for her, gyrating against her curled fingers. Trying to show her how much she needs her, _please,_ Beau, _please –_

“Damn, angel.” Beau props her chin on one hand. “Putting on a show for me, huh? Trying to convince me to let you cum?”

Yasha’s face must be bright red. How does Beau _do_ that? Utter just a few words that strip her down to the raw essentials of what she’s feeling in this moment? She doesn’t know, she doesn’t, but she needs more, _more_ –

“I – uh – y-yeah, Beau.” Any dregs of self-consciousness are lost to desperation. She swivels down, letting her head roll loose with the motion. Wet white curls spill over her shoulders. “ _Please_ – “

“Permission not granted, I’m afraid. I could watch this forever.”

Yasha growls. She earns only a laugh.

“You really want to be good, don’t you?” Beau fastens the drawstring on her trousers as she folds her legs into the lotus. “You’d torment yourself for hours, days, if I said so.”

The heat in Yasha’s core jumps a few more degrees. She’s another volcano with a monster inside, swollen and sore, ready to erupt. 

“How’s that sound?” Beau muses. “I’ll slip one of Jester’s vibes into you. Tie it in place. That way I can keep you wet for me all week before I work you open on my fist again.” Slight pause. “If you’re a good girl and beg for it nicely, of course.”

Fuck. Yasha almost sobs.

It builds, it bursts. She yanks her hand back sharp. Her hips snap against air, rather than that final touch that would topple her over. She bows her head, shoulders shaking. Slumping heavy on her heels.

“Did I say you could stop?”

Yasha’s lips tremble. She brushes herself. Judders, quakes. Again. Again. And – no – she can feel it –

No, she’s starting to –

Can’t stop, too far gone –

Each touch a firework, a burst shard of glass –

Beau hasn’t said she can cum, hasn’t said, but Yasha can’t –

“I’m sorry,” she whimpers. Trembling, every muscle locked. Eyes scrunched so tight that tears bud at their corners. They bleed down her cheeks, hot and treacherous, as she draws circles around her twitching clit. Beau thinks she’s good and Beau thinks she’s hers and she wants to be, wants to be _so badly,_ but she can’t even – “No, no, I’m sorry – “

“Yash?”

Shit. She can hear the frown in her voice.

She’s disappointed her.

Yasha can’t talk can’t think can’t _breathe._ Not with it pulsating through her like this, undeserved pleasure filling her with thick, creamy foam. Leaving her clenching, rippling, all through her insides.

She keeps stroking herself, after. Lip bitten, sore tongue dug into the chip on one of her back teeth.

Shuffling sounds. Hands and knees over mulchy leaves. Beau crawls close. She cups the back of Yasha’s neck, nails scraping Obann’s scar, like it’s that easy to peel him away. She strokes there until Yasha opens her eyes.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Ah – I – I – “

“You remember your words?” A lighter voice, now. Not that low, husky mask she puts on for the world (for Yasha too, when she needs it). “Your tap-out? You need this to stop?”

Yasha shakes her head. No, she knows she can do better. If Beau will just let her prove –

She rubs herself again. Eyes shut. Legs jerking, jaws clenching. Hissing at the oversensitized burn.

A quiet huff. Then Beau takes her wrist. Guiding her away.

“Okay, angel. It’s okay. Pushed you a bit hard, didn’t I? Gave you a bit more than you could take?” Lips brush her forehead. Beau is touching her, finally: stroking her shoulderblades, where her wings burst free, feathered and strong. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean to. I know you were trying _so hard_ to please me. Weren’t you?”

She’s not upset. _She’s not upset._ That relief hits almost as hard as the orgasm.

Yasha sags. She’s still throbbing, hard and sore, but at Beau’s words, she lets her body slump loose as her mind. She nuzzles the base of Beau’s neck, where she smells of Rumblecusp’s sulphurous springs but mostly of sun-baked Expositor leathers. She wraps her arms around her, needing her close.

“Mm. I knew it. Knew you wanted to be good.” She feels Beau swallow. Her hand keeps sweeping down Yasha’s back. Soothing, meditative. “Sorry, Yash. I don’t think we have time for more. And I didn’t even get to fuck you rough like you want.”

She sounds worried about that. Like she thinks Yasha gives a shit.

 _You’re all I want._ If only she could muster the fine motor control to say so. Her tongue’s as mushy as every other muscle, softened by Beau’s touch.

Beau keeps stroking. Right over where her wings should be. “On the plus side,” she says, slow like she’s figuring out the words. “I could, like, totally punish you? For, y’know. Disobeying and stuff?”

Yasha goes still. Just… processing that.

Beau scrambles to amend herself – “Or something! If, uh, that’s a thing you’re interested in, I mean…?”

It’s disgustingly cute when she loses the thread of a scene. Yasha gives Beau’s clavicle a kiss.

“Sound good?” Beau follows the downwards swoop of her back again – this time with nails. Yasha can feel them, just, through Beau’s gloves and her tunic. “You’ll take it so well for me. I know you will.”

Gods, yes. “Please.”

Beau nods. She still looks worried. The scar on her left cheek points to her nervous moue of a mouth. Its lowest point cuts deepest: a silvered divot, never covered by new skin. Yasha wants to fill its cup with kisses. Beau lets her, still rubbing Yasha’s back up and down, untangling her insides like a comb teasing matts from wild hair.

“Not yet, though,” she says, as Yasha presses her lips to that scar again, again. “Unless we want the others to interrupt when they send out a search party.”

Right. Their friends are waiting. Yasha shifts her weight, wet trousers pinching. “True.” Her voice is all crunchy, like she’s smoked her way through Beau’s stash of suude. “Uh. Tonight?”

“Think I got a free schedule. You just gotta be patient for me.” They have to rearrange slightly, Beau shuffling onto Yasha’s lap so she’s at the right height for proper kisses – not that Yasha’s complaining. “And we both know you’re good at that.”

Yasha doesn’t like the guilt in her voice. She tucks her finger under Beau’s chin and tilts in, knowing Beau loves her own taste. There's no hunger in the meeting of their mouths, only satiation. They lick into each other, slow and soft.

Beau’s first to ease back. She rests her head on Yasha’s shoulder. Holding her, being held in return. She’s trying to love her. Yasha feels it, in the sweep of her lashes against her skin, the way her thumbs sweep back and forth where she grips her waist. She buries her face against Beau’s hair – still soaked from their earlier splash-down – and breathes her in.

No one can wait forever. But for Beau, if she asks, Yasha will always wait one more evening.

Time trickles by. Eventually, once Yasha’s floated back into herself, re-inhabiting every rubbery limb, Beau clears her throat. “Should we…?” She waves to the trees down-slope.

Yasha can’t stop smiling. “Yeah.”

She stands, a little shaky. Then holds out a hand to lift Beau, too.

Beau takes it, palm rough as Yasha’s own. She doesn’t drop it once she’s upright. Just clears her throat and leads the way into the thick of the jungle, tugging Yasha along.

Yasha keeps smiling. She’s lighter than air. Earth beneath her feet, but she’s still flying, Beau’s fingers woven between hers and a heart full of thunder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: more kinky stuff, and a serious talk about emotional wants & fears (because they don't actually... really... do that here, lmao). Aaaand just to be clear, I don't agree with Beau's whole 'I don't have a serious excuse for my insecurities' shtick, but I think her _perception_ of that makes it harder for her to deal with shit. Anyway, you don't need an 'excuse' for insecurities to be valid. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please leave comments and kudos!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave kudos and comments if you enjoyed it? I'm @bougiebutchbitch on tumblr - follow for beauyasha art, updates on publishing schedule, and assorted fandom nonsense.


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